


Mongrel Commodore

by DeathknightQ



Series: Royal Navy of the Caribbean [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, I am as surprised as you all, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, can't trigger warn hard enough for that, pairings included most for filtering, the main pairing is Murtogg/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 11:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathknightQ/pseuds/DeathknightQ
Summary: Commodore Norrington contends with growing magic and fox madness.
Relationships: Gillette/James Norrington, James Norrington/Jack Sparrow, Murtogg/OFC
Series: Royal Navy of the Caribbean [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006929
Kudos: 8





	1. Hiratsuki

_February 3, 1723._

_I must admit that my decision to allow Pet to continue living in my home was based on sheer emotion. After all, in fox form she had been my pet for a year; I had grown attached to her. More than that. To be entirely frank, ~~I am not certain that~~ if she had not come into my life when she had, if she had not been as stalwart a presence as she was, I know that I would have wavered in the wake of Elizabeth’s rejection. Though I cannot predict the exact course my life would have taken, I do know how much one drink and every drink thereafter consumes me, who I give myself permission to be as I am consumed. I would not be here, now. That is certain. And difficult as it is to adapt to the idea of her sentience, the fact remained that though she now had two legs instead of four, she is still the being who saved my career. My life, both in the metaphorical and literal sense. Thus I let her stay in my house. _

_The story Andrew concocted was splendid. As far as anyone outside the Navy knows, Miss Shinarashi Hito is simply a castaway, a Japanese woman who fell overboard and was left behind. My crew found her, and upon seeing her skill in medicine pressed her into service. As she has no place to live, I gave her servant’s quarters in my home in exchange for her service as a personal physician. None but my crew knows that my fox and doctor are the same._

_Pet’s preternatural abilities helped the alibi along considerably. She constructed a device out of straw and wood known as a simalcrum. When activated, the simalcrum looks and acts exactly like Pet in fox form. Benjamin, of course, can tell the difference at a glance. The only way I can tell which is the simalcrum and which is the kitsune is that the simalcrum does not speak in my thoughts as Pet does. Thus it is that doctor and fox can be seen together, making any leaked information seem ludicrous._

_Andrew, Pet, Benjamin, and I had accounted for every discrepancy, every happening._

_Except for one. Due to the shogun’s trading policy, no one but the Dutch can trade with Japan. I had never before been exposed to her culture, and so I was thoroughly unprepared for Pet’s behavior. Upon receiving her room, the first thing Pet did was redecorate. She took out the chairs and bed frames, preferring to sit upon cushions and sleep on a mattress on the floor (which she rolls up and stores in a trunk each morning). She did carpentry to the tables, reworking them so she can use them while sitting upon cushions. She kept the armoire intact, thank goodness._

_What she filled it with was another matter. I had graciously had the staff provide her a corset, shifts, and proper dresses. Pet did not even know what a corset was. I had one of the servingwomen explain the use of a corset and undergarments. She wore the proper garments for only two weeks, then spent her first pay buying cloth. Pet then made herself another set of hakama (a type of trouser, which is simply shocking), and two items of clothing called "kimonos." While the kimonos are (unfortunately) very lovely, they in no way facilitate blending in._

_I have, of course, explained that kimonos are far too thin for a lady to wear since they consist of only three layers of cloth - at the most. She said that she cannot fight in proper wear. I have told her that she has no need to be battle-ready on shore, but without success. I also attempted to explain that only the women of loosest virtue carry on as undressed as she does, and that her behavior exposes her own virtue (and presence in my home) to speculation. She interpreted this as a slight against her customs, species, and homeland. She was quite cross for several days and now refuses to wear English dress at all under any circumstance. I think there may be an element of principle involved. I have no idea how to remedy the situation._

_On the other hand, Mr. Kurtz and his ilk can hardly say Pet is no better than she ought to be and maintain that I am sodomizing Andrew at the same time, so I guess that is a sort of progress._

_This reminds me that I shall have to bring up the matter of courting to Andrew again at a convenient time. The prospects here are grim even without his limitations, granted, but he could at least make an effort. Even looking below his class would be better than his stubborn and mysterious refusal to even give the women of the town a chance._

_Also odd is Pet’s way of eating breakfast. She set up something called a kamidana in a corner of her room, and each morning she puts a small bowl of rice and a glass of water upon it. She then sits before it for a few moments, bows, and then eats the food. She then joins the rest of servants to finish breakfast, or dines with me as a fox. Perhaps she needs the rice like we need water, but why she cannot eat it in the servant’s dining hall I cannot fathom. Nor can I fathom her odd practice of sprinkling water all over the house when she first arrived-_

A handful of beans landing on his journal interrupted Norrington’s writing. The Commodore noted with dismay that a few of the legumes had landed in his ink bottle. Norrington looked up, his eyes narrowing in consternation. What on earth was Pet up to now?

" _Oni wa soto! Fuku wa uchi!_ " Shinarashi called, opening the window and tossing beans through it. 

"What are you doing?" Norrington asked.

"Setsubun," Shinarashi replied. "The beans collect negative energy, or bad luck. By throwing them all over the house then sweeping them up and disposing of them, I’m purifying the house for the coming year."

"You’re joking." 

"You pour wine on the deck, I throw beans on the ground. I really don’t see where one is sillier than the other." With a sigh, Norrington picked the unfortunate beans out of his ink. 

"You didn’t do this last year," he sighed, wiping ink off the letter opener he had used to fish Pet’s bad-luck-collectors out of his writing fluid. 

"I didn’t have thumbs, so I couldn’t throw." Shinarashi lifted the small wood bowl that contained her projectiles in a gesture, then tossed another handful out the other set of windows. 

"Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?" Norrington said dryly. 

"Norrington-sama," Shinarashi said softly, "I’ll sweep up the beans in a few hours and no damage to your possessions is being done. Why does this cause you frustration?"

"You cause me frustration," Norrington sighed, gesturing with confused exasperation. "Sprinkling water, starting breakfast in your room, now throwing beans. It’s all so… ridiculous." Norrington couldn’t see Shinrashi’s fox ears, they were intentionally covered by her upswept hairstyle, but he knew they were laid against her skull. 

"As ridiculous as placing plants in the doorways so you can kiss people you don’t like?" Shinarashi asked, cocking her head. An unkind smile played at her lips. "You are as silly as I, mighty Commodore who cannot stand against old crones. You are going to Rochester-san’s birthday party, are you not?"

"Fair enough," Norrington admitted. "Continue your sets-whatever it is, but I wouldn’t wait two hours to sweep up the beans. Jervis will have beaten you to it by then."

"Setsubun. I warned him in advance," Shinarashi said.

"Exactly. Jervis has declared war on you as a human as much as on you as a fox," Norrington said, gently sweeping the beans from his journal to his floor. Pet sighed and departed, calling her odd mantra. The Commodore looked down at his journal, and picking up a quill, he wrote: 

_However odd her behavior, I must admit the house is far warmer with her presence than it would be without. And it can’t be ignored that since her arrival a good tenth of the flighty daughters have ceased accepting my obligatory invitations to high tea. That fact alone, aside from the pleasure her company affords me, makes her bean-throwing an acceptable disturbance._

* * *

Shinarashi looked down at her plate as the servant set it before her. Beneath her hair, her fox’s ears drooped in dismay. The plate was filled with thick slices of roasted beef, scalloped potatoes, and tongue. All of it was smothered in rich gravy, accompanied by bread and butter. For Shinarashi, who was used to a diet of rodent meat, fish, eggs, and plant matter, the meal was far less than appetizing. Though she had been in human form for a little under three months, she still was having difficulties adapting to the heavy English food she was now expected to eat. Shinarashi glanced sidelong at Norrington, who was discussing Aristotle with the venerable Mr. Rochester. He was eating his fatty beef and bread with apparent unconcern, focused entirely upon his discussion.

With an inward sigh, Shinarashi picked up the odd eating utensil these Westerners used, a collection of tines attached to the end of a metal handle. Though to her it was most discourteous, she stabbed her food and brought a bite to her mouth. Her face stoic, she ate the greasy morsel. 

"I say, isn’t the food lovely?" the stuffy fur merchant next to her shouted. Because of her unusual appearance, the stuffy socialites around her assumed she was ignorant. _Never mind that kitsune are born understanding all the mortal tongues,_ Shinarashi thought. She wished she could beg off these interminable dinners, but as the chief surgeon of the Fort she could not decline the invitations sent her way. _The only reason they invite me is so I can’t summon the Commodore on "business." They hate me and do not want me here at all._ Still, the merchant was making something approaching an effort to try, which was more than the landed gentry did.

"The food is very rich," Shinarashi said. Which was perfectly true. As a kitsune, she was physically incapable of telling a lie, though she could get away with omitting information or not responding at all. Her inability to lie made Western courtesy very much a challenge. 

Shinarashi glanced down the room at Murtogg, who was eating with the lesser guests. He had also been summoned as a way of flanking Norrington, and was equally uncomfortable. At Shinarashi’s request and to Murtogg’s delight, the marine had been transferred from battle-duty to being a physician’s assistant. The two traded information: as the kitsune taught him the ways of medicine, the marine taught her what he had learned of sailing over his eighteen years at sea. He also taught her the rules of ship life, saving her from the master-at-arms’ eager lash. Murtogg noticed her attention and smiled his boyish grin. He was seated between Mr. Ashton’s haberdasher and the pretty daughter of Dr. Cavendish, the city physician – new money, barely respectable, but not servants. The daughter didn’t seem to mind, even though Murtogg, with his typical innocence, didn’t notice she was trying to flirt with him. Shinarashi smiled back briefly, then returned her attention to the bellowing fur merchant.

"I’m told that you’re reticent to perform amputations. Fellow was going on and on about how he’d not lost the hand and on any other ship he would have. Seems like a lot of fuss, if you ask me."

"For me, yes, amputation would be easier. For the men who must then learn to live without a limb, though, my techniques are most appreciated," Shinarashi said, making a point of keeping her voice soft. "They also appreciate my keen hearing, in that I may be summoned by the softest moan of discomfort or delirium." The fur merchant jerked, uncertain if he was being insulted or not. Nevertheless, he stopped shouting.

"Doubtless that once you find a husband you’ll assimilate yourself more completely into proper behavior," he said. Shinarashi raised her eyebrows. "It’s unseemly for a member of the gentler sex to be mucking around in what is man’s work. I’m certain it’ll be a relief for you to return to the natural order of society." 

"Nearly all of the Old Gods connected to healing were goddesses. Indeed, from our earliest memories forward, were our mothers not the administrators of healing?" Shinarashi said with a delicate shrug. Though she knew the debate was pointless, it was an excellent excuse for neglecting her meal.

"Old wives’ remedies," the merchant said with a dismissive wave. "Serious medicine is a field for men. It requires education and an objective viewpoint. Women are far too emotional to make the life-or-death decisions doctors must make." 

"Of the women you have met, this is no doubt true," Shinarashi said, thinking of those women who were always hovering about Norrington. "But not all women are thus.” Mrs. Turner and Blood Flag captain certainly were not, but Shinarashi highly doubted the fur-merchant would be swayed by such proof. Telling him that demons didn’t always have sexual dimorphism or even sexual reproduction, and therefore most Makai societies didn’t have anything like the concept of gender roles was also right out. Instead Shinarashi opted for, “in Japan, before Tokugawa took root and festered, all women were taught to be able to defend their honor and cure their families. There was no other choice: there were too many enemies and too few men for them to do everything." Shinarashi smiled demurely, taking the sting out of her words. "It speaks well of your population that your women have the leisure to be concerned of naught but home and hearth."

"Yes, well," the merchant said pompously, "your barbarian breeding must be taken into account. But you’re in the British Empire now. You don’t need to worry your head about that sort of thing." 

And there it was. Where that word always was: on the tip of their tongues. As if she could not kill him in an instant, as if she had not killed men like him beyond counting. 

" _You_ are the one who needn’t worry your head about that sort of thing, because those of us at the Fort see to it you don’t.” 

The fur merchant did not know how to reply, so he turned to speak with his other dining partner. 

"Alienating people is a way of life for you, isn’t it?" Gillette asked. "You’re just so freakishly unnatural that you can’t help yourself." But unlike the fur-merchant, Gillette did not mean his words as an insult. 

"You have nothing to say on that topic, Andrew-kun," Shinarashi said in a wry, low voice. She glanced up at him sideways. "Though why your people insist on labeling perfectly natural, normal things as unnatural, I cannot comprehend." 

"Natural and normal?" Gillette asked, raising an interested eyebrow. 

Shinarashi nodded once. 

" _Sacre coeur_ ," Gillette said, "I should like to visit Japan." 

Norrington fixed both of them with a firm looks. He looked steadily at Andrew, slid his eyes sideways to the woman on Gillette’s other side, then turned his attention back to Mr. Rochester. Shinarashi didn’t understand that at all: the woman in question had been studiously pretending the chair next to her was vacant for the entire meal. Andrew didn’t look particularly repentant in any case. 

Shinarashi picked at her meal until finally it was taken away. She ignored the dancing completely, giving much more attention to Gillette, who was always interesting. It helped that the gentry hated him, too. French father, Irish mother, born in Ireland and thus presumed Catholic, and abolitionist all at once: as far as most anyone was concerned, Norrington should have heaved Gillette overboard and left him to drown, not promoted him to Lieutenant.

"Watch as she makes her move, making certain her opposition is powerless by poking out their eyes with her fluttering fan. I swear, give her one of your war fans and let her lose on a pirate ship, we’d have naught to do but watch as she eliminated the entire crew," Gillette murmured. Shinarashi tried to smother her smile, watching the after-banquet mingling.

"Andrew-kun, you’re completely wrong. She couldn’t even lift the war fan, let alone flail it around at a frenzied pace."

Someone had somehow trapped Norrington in a cage of his own manners to get him to participate in the dancing. He was the perfect picture of well-bred education, moving between partners with smooth unsmiling grace. The pair of them watched as Mrs. Rochester intercepted Groves as he made his way to the floor. Groves was charming and handsome, even if not particularly well-moneyed. He would have been the perfect candidate to cut in. Mrs. Rochester was, for all her flaws, a clever social strategist.

"Good evening, Lieutenant, Doctor," Governor Swann said courteously. Gillette and Shinarashi jumped like guilty schoolchildren. "I trust you are enjoying yourselves?"

"Immensely, sir," Gillette said with a straight face. 

"Excellent, excellent," Swann said. “I imagine it’s a treat for you both to be invited up, see how the better half lives, hm?”

“It is certainly-- enlightening,” Shinarashi said carefully.

“‘Enlightening,’” Swann repeated. He smiled wistfully. “You sound like my daughter. She always hated these things. Still does, as a point of fact. Steadfastly refuses to come.”

Gillette and Shinarashi glanced at each other. Neither of them held a particularly high opinion of Mrs. Turner, apology to the Commodore non-withstanding. Neither of them believed voicing that to the Governor was anyone’s definition of a smart play.

“Well, do carry on,” Swann said, and moved along to the next guest. 

“Is that normal?” Shinarashi asked once Swann had passed beyond human earshot. 

“He was making a point,” Gillette explained. “He’s the Governor. As far as social climbing goes, he’s at the top, and short of an order from the Crown there’s nothing anyone can do about it. By making a point to talk to you, he’s as much saying you belong here. People will have to say you’re no better than you ought to be behind closed doors, now. Not where Commodore Norrington might hear, or hear about it.” 

Shinarashi drew her brows together and frowned, trying to put the pieces together. It sounded like Governor Swann was according her some sort of status. It was obviously a favor for the Commodore, not herself, but how?

“And he does not make the same sort of insistence for Turner-san because his daughter doesn’t want to be a part of the gentry?” she asked Gillette.

“Why would you think--” Gillette broke off. He stared at the demon in utter puzzlement. Then he reached to the side and placed his hand on the small of Shinarashi’s back. Shinarashi looked over her shoulder at his arm, but Gillette was applying pressure and starting to walk. Shinarashi let herself be cajoled along the side of the room and around the corner into the hallway. They were now out of sight of the guests.

Gillette leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

“People think you’re the Commodore’s whore.”

“ _What_?!” Shinarashi clapped her hands over her mouth, thankful of Andrew’s prescience to pull her out of the melee of guests. She continued in the same low whisper Gillette used. “That’s not-- Andrew-kun, never, not ever, you have to--” 

“ _I_ know better. Most of this lot do, too. The hands talk to the clarks who talk to their employers, and so forth. But the gentry-- they don’t talk to servants, or sailors, not that way. All they see is that you carry on like a prostitute and the Commodore takes you to sea. After that bit with the infection last year, even those that _do_ know about how much better things have been in the cockpit think you’re just a front for Mr. Murtogg’s genius.” Gillette made an indelicate snort to indicate his opinion of _that_ notion.

Shinarashi stared at him, shock giving way to hot anger. Humans. She thought Andrew knew better. She’d thought that he _was_ better.

“‘Carry on like a prostitute?’” she repeated breathily.

“No underthings,” Gillette clarified, gesturing up and down at Shinarashi’s clothing. “Well, at least not the sort that respectable women wear. James didn’t explain this to you, or have one of the servingwomen do so?”

Shinarashi’s hands flew back over her mouth. The floor was falling out from under her. She owed the Commodore such an apology.

“I thought he was telling me not to-- it’s a common misperception where I’m from. That kitsune are obligate polyamorists.”

“Brilliant,” Gillette said, looking up at the ceiling. He looked back down at the demon. “At the Fort, or even headed to the Fort for duty, dress practically. But just around town, and especially at these sorts of things-- You can’t carry on however you please, society be damned, all the time. There are _consequences_. You need to look the part of respectability. We all do.” He knew that better than anyone, and his voice was thick with the knowing.

Shinarashi remembered Norrington’s pointed look at Gillette and the woman beside him. Norrington, who didn’t know. Who couldn’t know, not ever. She rested a hand on her friend’s forearm.

“Andrew-kun--”

“It’s fine,” Gillette said, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat. “I will think of something. The most obvious solution would be to marry you,” Shinarashi blinked, “kill two birds with one stone. You needn’t worry, I am equally aware of the obvious reason that wouldn’t work.” 

Shinarashi knew for a fact he didn’t, but she did not want to have that conversation at Mrs. Rochester’s birthday party. Whatever reason he thought he had was fine for the moment. 

She hated these parties. She hated these people. She knew from the Fort Charles men that humans could be better than she’d thought. They didn’t always choose to be. Even here. Even now. Shinarashi could kill them all.

But she wouldn’t. 

“Can we leave?”

Gillette thought about it, weighing the idea against the capricious human rules of conduct.

“I don’t see why not. I suppose it may work to be going on with, provided I am seen returning you to your home. You, however, have to promise me you’ll explain the nature of the matter, with obvious omissions, to Mr. Murtogg. I have _no_ desire to disabuse any misapprehensions.” 

Shinarashi had no idea why he thought Benjamin needed to be informed, but she could say with all honesty say that Benjamin would be hearing about this at some length. Benjamin just endured the consequences for non-conformity as they came, be they White’s bullying or Peter’s disapproval. He was terribly stubborn, in his quiet way. It never would have occurred to him to correct Shinarashi’s dress. 

“All right,” Gillette said. He offered his arm. Shinarashi mimicked what she’d seen the women do walking in town, curling one hand around the crook of his arm and resting the other on his forearm.

* * *

The next morning shortly before noon, Shinarashi strode into Norrington’s office in an actual dress carrying an arm-full of papers and deep contrition. 

Norrington listened to and graciously accepted her apology for both misunderstanding the nature of his objection to her dress, and for inadvertently subjecting him to gossip. He silently concluded that the appropriate reward for a job well done for Gillette should be to delegate all further conversations of a delicate nature to the Lieutenant.

The demon then set the papers she’d been carrying on his desk.

"I have some ideas,” the kitsune explained. “As the ship’s surgeon, the fitness of the crew is my responsibility. Whereas my sanitation procedures have helped immensely, and the herbs I'll harvest this summer will help even more, the fact remains that when I apply medicine to the men I'm fighting their bodies most of the way.”

“What do you mean?” Norrington asked, just as happy to move on to another topic.

“The sailors are undernourished. Trying to get their bodies to use what little fuel they have for healing is an uphill battle. Now I know,” Shinarashi said, holding up a forestalling hand, “that preservation, cost, and space are big concerns on a ship. However, I think that the current diet of unknown meat and weevil biscuit could be improved upon without a great deal of concession on any of those three fronts. Would you be willing to hear me out?”

“I will listen. But I make no promises,” Norrington said. Shinarashi spread her papers out. Her penmanship was impeccable. An inborn knowledge of languages clearly came with unexpected bonuses. 

"The ship’s biscuit we have has as much nutrition as hay - perhaps less. What I propose…” Shinarashi gestured to the appropriate page, “is using barley instead. It has far more nutrient value, is easier to digest, and would take up the same space that the biscuit does now - cooking water included. The barley will also absorb much of the cooking water, adding a secondary source of hydration. Of course, during storms no cooking can be done. We could keep a small store of biscuit for such circumstances, though the barley itself could be eaten raw. It just won’t taste as good or contribute as much nutrition.” Shinarashi highlighted her calculations. They were evenly-lined and precise, the way supply lists should be. “In addition, the dehydrated peas, if cooked with the barley, will be soft enough for the men to consume and digest easily.” 

Norrington looked at the appropriate sheet, his brow furrowed in concentration. Though he saw merit in the kitsune’s suggestion, the fact remained that Navy ships had always used ship’s biscuit. The recipe was a tradition of its own. 

“Now on to the meat,” Shinarashi said calmly, calling his attention to another page. “If we use jerked or smoked meat of any kind, even fish, instead of salt pork, we'll still be providing the men the protein they need and yet we'll improve digestibility tenfold. Another advantage to jerky is it takes less room to store jerked meat than salt pork. To utilize part of that extra space, I propose a disinfectant stash.” Shinarashi showed the Commodore another sheet. “I could then keep a store of ninety-proof alcohol, which would be far more effective than the modified rum I've been using in keeping infection at bay. I would add a small amount of paracress to the disinfectant. It would act both as a painkiller and as a disincentive for the sailors to drink my stores, since the two make a dangerous combination when ingested.” Shinarashi’s mouth curved dryly. Keeping sailors out of her medicinal alcohol had been a constant and often losing battle.

“Both the barley and the jerky have the advantage that what pests they do collect can be easily disposed of prior to cooking. Those pests can further be minimized if the wooden storage barrels are first treated with a distillate of marigold. Another advantage, though minor, is that all of my provision suggestions taste much better than the seaman’s usual fare,” Shinarashi finished. Norrington looked over her math: it was accurate. 

“Why fruit and-- seaweed harvesting?” 

“Granted, we are rarely more than a month out of Port. However, if we should be blown far off course or come upon a merchant ship at the tail end of their voyage with affected persons, having a small store aboard could be life-saving.”

“Affected by...?” Norrington demanded with what he felt was considerable patience.

Shinarashi stared at him, then said with equal slowness, “Scurvy.”

“You jest!”

“I do not!”

“Scurvy is the natural result of being at sea for long periods of time. Forty to fifty percent losses are to be expected for substantial voyages,” Norrington argued. “There is absolutely no evidence suggesting diet is responsible.”

The demon woman crossed her arms and cocked her hip. “Have your scientists ever looked for any?” She had a very dim view of mortal science, and it was clearly getting dimmer every day.

Norrington opened his mouth, closed it, took a breath -- and then had to finally shake his head silently. No one had ever questioned the cause of scurvy that he could recall. It simply was.

“Give me what I ask for. First ship we come across with affected sailors, I’ll give them either the citrus or the seaweed. You’ll see them cured in days.”

Norrington picked up Shinarashi’s papers sharply. “No one will ever believe something as pervasive as scurvy can be cured with fruit.”

“I don’t care if your primitive mortal doctors believe it. I care that you let me prove it to you.”

Norrington fixed her with the sternest look he had ever given a misbehaving midshipman. The demon woman was considerably older than a midshipman and was unmoved.

“The staples you seek to alter and replace have stood the Royal Navy for centuries. And to completely replace this years’ supplies alone will cost a fortune, never mind that the supplies you propose are slightly more expensive than the ones we currently use and will probably still be so next year. Why should I consent?” 

“A horse fed hay will do more and heal faster than a horse fed on straw, and if that hay is supplemented by oats the horse will be capable of even more. The same principle applies to humans. Improve the diet of the sailors under your command, and their performance will increase,” Shinarashi stated. She stared at him expectantly.

It flew in the face of all convention and modern scientific thought, and tradition besides. 

But so did her insistence on cleanliness. Look where that had gotten his crew.

Norrington’s shoulders slumped. They would never know how much knowledge the mages had taken with them when they’d created the Barrier. Neither could they how much of it humanity would be able to rediscover on their own. All they had was bits and fragments, recorded by mortals in sacred texts and superstitions.

The Commodore handed Shinarashi her papers. “If we didn't have the Blood Flag’s treasure in reserve, I couldn't agree to this. Such as it is… be frugal; the store of money is not unlimited.” Norrington wrote a message on a piece of paper and handed it to Shinarashi. “This gives you the authority to purchase what you require. Take it to the purser and he will give you the necessary vouchers.”

“Once a merchant sees a Navy voucher, he adds a pound to the price. If I use cash I can pretend to be purchasing on your coin. That way he'll only add a shilling,” Shinarashi said. The corners of Norrington’s mouth twitched, and he revised the note. “Thank you, Norrington-sama.”

“Don't thank me. You will explain your editing to the cooks, whose workload you've just added to, and explain your logic to Dr. Wellington,” Norrington ordered. “He is to yell at you, not waste my valuable time complaining about my orders.” 

“Understood, Commodore,” the kitsune said glumly. She departed the office feeling both elated and apprehensive. While it was true her quest to redeem herself by doctoring men’s suffering had just enjoyed a victory, that victory meant another confrontation with the unsavory Dr. Wellington. 

The kitsune went to the purser, showed him her note, and received her money. She then headed into Port Royale proper. Just before entering the marketplace, Shinarashi ducked into an alley. She then cast a glamour, an illusion spell that gave the men around her the impression of such beauty that they would do whatever she asked. The glamour did not alter her features, so those women around her would see nothing unusual about her appearance.

Thus armed, Shinarashi went shopping. The glamour was successful to the point that the kitsune did not merely avoid the shilling surcharge, but managed to come out significantly under-budget. The only things the kitsune paid full price for were some of the more exotic and hard-to-find herbs she required. After all, she was a demon, not a pirate.

Next on her list were the cooks, who took the revelation that they would now have to boil supper fairly well. After all, they ate what the crew ate. An improvement in the rations was an improvement for them, extra work or no. The quartermaster also took the news well, since it was the same amount of work for him no matter what was stored. The only thing left was the odious Dr. Wellington, the encounter Shinarashi was most disenchanted about.

“So if it isn't the savage witch.” Wellington was already furious and she hadn’t even started talking. “Come to teach me how to do my trade, barbarian?” 

“I have come to inform you that a change has been made in the stores, Wellington-san,” Shinarashi said with stiff politeness. “Ship’s biscuit is being replaced by barley, and salt pork by jerked beef. Also added will be ninety-proof alcohol combined with paracress, for use in disinfecting wounds and instruments. I believe your physician’s assistant Porter has been briefing you on the cleaning procedures.” 

“Ah, yes, your precious--” The word Wellington used didn’t sound so bad on its face, but Shinarashi knew the phrase had a colloquial meaning as a slur. “-customs. No leeches. Everything is to be washed with soap and water at least twice a week and after each battle. The rinse tubs are to be changed every hour during treatment. Alcohol is to be poured into every wound. Yes, Porter has been briefing me. And it’s all rubbish, barbarian rubbish. You think you can just waltz in here and turn scientific medicine on its ear. Well, let me tell you, witch, that the Commodore’s a strong man. Whatever spell you've got him under won't last. When he breaks free, he'll be the first one in line with a torch in his hand at your burning. And believe me, you'll burn.” 

Shinarashi said nothing during this tirade, merely looking at Wellington as you'd look at something unpleasant stepped in with bare feet. There was a time she’d have killed him without hesitation. It wasn’t even so long ago. _Humans can be more,_ she reminded herself again, _they just don’t always choose to be._

“You have spoken plainly, so I shall do the same,” Shinarashi said, concentrating hard on keeping her fangs from lengthening and keeping the growl out of her “r”s. “My ‘customs’ work, Wellington-san. Your leeches do not. Agreement is not required, only obedience. The Commodore has commanded sanitation, and he has commanded a change in diet. You will do both, or else explain to the Captain why you do not. It is your decision. Good day, Wellington-san.”


	2. Karatake

Norrington was not a particularly convivial individual, and certainly not possessed of the sort of bold charisma of Jack Sparrow. Nevertheless, decency has its own charisma, fairness its own charm, and victory its own appeal. 

There were exceptions to Norrington’s popularity, however. The Master-at-Arms for the _Intrepid_ , Jacob Wood, hated Norrington. The Commodore had insisted upon justice in the administering of discipline, and while there were still a goodly number of floggings, there were far fewer than under Norrington’s predecessor. Wood enjoyed his duties, and hated the man who'd caused the lessening in his pleasures. The man’s fondest fantasy was having Norrington under the lash, trussed and screaming.

Another exception was the Governor’s secretary, Elijah Parker. Mr. Parker also knew that someone in the Caribbean detachment was taking kickbacks from pirates in exchange for giving them the itineraries, cargo manifests, and defensive capabilities of the richest merchant vessels. Only someone ranked higher than a captain had access to that information, and the Commodore’s odd inability to hang Jack Sparrow made him a prime suspect.

There were, of course, other men who hated Norrington: rich fathers who hated him for not promoting their inept sons; jilted fathers who did not fancy his snubbing of their daughters; armchair admirals who felt Norrington was too easy on his men; racial purists who found his promotion of a man both Irish and French to First Lieutenant and his appointment of an Asian to the post of surgeon -- both selected over pureblooded English candidates -- offensive; and officers who felt Norrington’s courtesy to the commoners did not befit his station. His most dangerous enemy, however, Norrington knew nothing about. 

The Commodore’s direct superior, Admiral Jondrette Harfeyen, was the man Mr. Parker looked for. He had been making more money on pirate bribes than he had been being an Admiral. However, Norrington’s relentless and successful campaign against pirates had cut into the Admiral’s earnings – sharply, since he’d earned his sobriquet. The Admiral had thought that the brilliant Commodore would burn himself out, or else succumb to the easy money corruption provided. Harfaeyn had even attempted to speed that corruption along with bribes sent through discreet intermediaries. He’d had to have those intermediaries discreetly killed after Norrington had summarily arrested them. 

Harfeyen had next attempted to frame the Commodore and the Swann family (who made up the bulk of Norrington’s civilian political support) in the eyes of the trading companies, since the local military leadership would never have been fooled by such a ruse. It hadn’t worked. The man had successfully protected too many company ships for any of the company lords from any of the companies to believe Norrington was in any way allied with Sparrow or any other pirate. Norrington had made it even worse by metaphorically beheading the Blood Flag syndicate the Christmas after what should have been the day of his arrest. 

Harfeyen had tried to turn the loss of Diane’s considerable payments into an advantage. He’d had his second, Commodore Clark, prepare a report detailing the decline in piracy in the Caribbean and the commensurate rise in piracy in the Pacific. He had then had Clark submit the report with the addendum that military resources should be reallocated accordingly.

Instead of simply handing the “Fox Commodore” over to the Pacific detachments as a gift, Admiral Gloucester – damn the man – had forwarded Clark’s report to Norrington for comment. Norrington had replied with a short letter to the admiralty in general detailing his belief that applying pressure in the Pacific while lessening pressure in the Caribbean would just “chase” piracy back around Cape Horn. Norrington had included with his letter a _seventy-nine page_ counter-proposal detailing a joint effort between the Navy and the EITC (with optional footnotes if Dutch cooperation could be secured), pushing down along the Oriental (and Pacific Northwest, see footnotes) shipping lanes. With the Navy maintaining pressure in the Caribbean, and given that there were rumors of a Southern colony to be established in Australia, the Golden Age of piracy could be brought to a resounding and final end in five to seven years.

Lord Beckett had almost had a bloody _orgasm_ reading the thing. He’d packed off to the Pacific and getting Norrington transferred before he’d finished in the Indies had become a non-starter.

Killing Norrington outright would invite questions, particularly since pirate leadership would be the first suspects. Harfeyen wasn’t stupid enough to believe any of the pirates who paid him would hesitate to hand him over to the authorities to save their own skins.

There was only one thing for it in Harfeyen’s eyes: the Fox Commodore would have to be broken. 

Norrington, for his part, thought his superior to be an honest and just man. He saw that the pirates knew far more about the merchant’s defenses than they ought, but he had attributed that to a dishonest clerk. Of greater concern to Norrington was trouble in Jamaican waters. Shinarashi’s predictions had been true: Makai had begun slipping across the Barrier. The first two, a kappa and a harmless tree spirit, had been easily dealt with. However, the Commodore knew that worse was to come. He scoured his library and those of others, collecting all the information he could find on magical creatures. This information was then dispensed to Norrington’s men. Shinarashi added what knowledge she had, including weaknesses. Some creatures could be killed with standard weaponry.

Others could only be killed or bound by other means. Norrington’s precious silver place-settings were melted down to make bullets for use against undead beings; the officers ate off of wood and tin like the common sailors. Each man was now given a sprig of wolfsbane for use against were-creatures. Buckets of saltwater were kept on hand against fire spirits and sendings of dark magic that couldn't stand the double purification of salt and water. Added to standard drills where drills in identifying and slaying unfriendly Makais, and rules of etiquette for dealing with more temperate creatures. The men of the Royal Navy were being trained to fight legends.

None of this was mentioned in Norrington’s reports, however. Until the proof was unmistakable, the Commodore didn't dare risk being removed from his post for madness. The kappa had disintegrated as it died, and the tree spirit could not be held by a cage of any form. And while several of the wealthier civilians wondered at the new drills or the sudden purchase of incredible amounts of dried wolfsbane, they could take no decisive action to have the Commodore’s sanity evaluated.

“That, of course, is the one true advantage to you Occidentals,” Shinarashi commented on the deck of the _Dauntless_ the final day in March. She looked askance at the Commodore. “Back home, the very fact you owned a fox would have had you removed from command. No other proof would have been required.”

“True,” Norrington said. His voice was clipped and official, as it always was when he was around his crew. “However, that same lack of superstition means that we can't prepare the populace in general for whatever lies in store-”

Murtogg’s shout interrupted him.

“Ship off the larbord stern! There’s a blue fuzzy glow about her; she’s spelled!” 

“Cloaking spells,” Shinarashi murmured as the crew looked and saw nothing. 

“Sound to quarters!” Norrington ordered. “Mr. Murtogg, give me her exact position.” Shinarashi disappeared below as the drums ratted their staccato alarm. 

“Two points west, about one hundred yards,” Murtogg reported. The crew was slow about getting to their posts, not realizing that even though they saw no ship, this wasn't a drill. The _Intrepid_ was doing nothing at all. As far as it knew, the _Dauntless_ was drilling, signal flag going aloft or no. Norrington promised himself to rectify that.

“Firing!” Murtogg shouted, and a roar of cannon fire filled the air. The stern of the _Intrepid_ bloomed with deadly flowers of shattered glass and flying wood. The Intrepid took a chain shot to the main mast. The mast was cracked, but it held.

“Fire at the smoke!” Norrington ordered. “Murtogg, coordinates!”

“Wearing away, coming starboard, readying her second battery--” The starboard side of the ship exploded as the rear of the _Intrepid_ had. The _Dauntless_ crew fired back blindly, with no idea if they were hitting anything or not.

“She’s a brigantine, sir, and preparing to board - there’s a woman on deck -” Murtogg dropped, and a shot of blue fire barely missed him. “I'm guessing she’s the cause of the invisibility.” Another round of cannon fire raked the _Dauntless_. The _Intrepid_ was sounding to quarters at long last. She wasn’t wearing away or picking up speed. No signal flags were raising. What the Hell was going on over there? 

“We can't hit what we can't see,” Norrington muttered, then issued fresh orders. “Helm, look for disturbance in the water and get us as close as you can!” Norrington crouched down as another stream of blue power shot his way. “Mr. Murtogg, eliminate the mage.” Murtogg swallowed, but nodded. The marine who hated to kill crawled as close to the rail as he could. With sweat trickling down his face and neck, he took aim and fired his musket. Between the pitching of the deck, the thick smoke, and the fact muskets were especially hard to aim in perfect conditions - Murtogg missed. His musket ball struck the mage’s thigh, but it didn't kill. 

Nevertheless, the pain broke the mage’s concentration. The invisibility spell heaved and rippled in the air, providing a perfect target for Norrington’s gunners. The _Dauntless_ ’s cannons hit their marks, shattering the vessel’s hull. The spell collapsed, and the ship could clearly be seen. It was a the _Reine Anne_ , under the command of Antione Pontlouis. 

“Take that, you French bastard!” Gillette cried, easily heard over the din. Norrington spared him an ironic glance. 

Now that her invisibility spell had been broken, the mage fought harder with her magic. Blue fire like lighting leaped across the distance, turning men’s bodies to charred husks. What didn't strike flesh started fires. It seemed that Pontlouis had the upper hand, for the Navy soldiers were too busy dodging lightning and putting out fires to be a real threat to the French boarders, even with the reinforcements from the _Intrepid_ boarding the _Dauntless_ ’s other side. 

With a snarl, Norrington removed his hat, tunic, and wig. He hoped that with his over-wear and cover missing, he'd look just enough like a Frenchman to escape notice. He grabbed one of the French crew’s abandoned ropes and boarded the _Reine Anne_ , keeping low to the deck. The Commodore began working his way toward the mage, intent upon evening the playing field. Apparently, Pontlouis’s crew was not as smart as their captain, for they took no notice of the Commodore.

The magician had long, black hair and wore blue robes. A goodly portion of her lower half was stained with blood; it was obvious she'd loose the leg. She was small, pretty, and female, yet Norrington felt no pity for her… Only a distant sort of hate for the woman who had murdered several of his men and contributed to the deaths of many more. He moved closer to the mage, keeping behind barrels so she wouldn't see him. He got as close as he could, then leapt from hiding. The distant feeling vanished, and his anger blazed full force. 

“You!” the mage screamed, too late to save herself from the sword thrust that ended her life. Norrington grabbed her bleeding corpse by the collar and held it high. 

“Look!” he shouted. “Look at your witch!”

Without the unfair advantage of magic Pontlouis couldn't win, not with two Navy crews fighting hand-to-hand against his one. He knew it. He surrendered. 

Later, after the mess had been cleaned up and the wounded seen to, Shinarashi identified the woman. 

“Her name is Areen Stormwind. She’s one of the mid-level wizardesses, or she was when I knew her. I understand how Benjamin was able to shoot her, as he can see through even spirit spells. But how did you get close enough to kill?”

“I removed my uniform. I looked French enough to pass,” Norrington said. He looked around the cockpit. The wounded were on one side, and the corpses on the other. The bodies were neatly stacked, waiting to be taken to the deck and sewn into their hammocks. The candlelight was flattering to the pale and bloody skin, granting the dead the illusion of sleep.

“Not enough to fool a Stormwind. They have spells that tell them when an enemy is near, and no amount of hiding or costuming can defeat those spells. A demon could fool the spell, as could a more powerful mage… but not a mortal like yourself,” Shinarashi said thoughtfully, wrapping the corpse for disposal. Norrington’s brows dipped in confusion.

“Perhaps she was distracted by the bullet in her thigh,” he said slowly. “Or perhaps she'd lost too much blood. You said that concentration was vital to magic.” 

“Perhaps,” Shinarashi said doubtfully. “Doubtful, but possible. What concerns me is why she didn't just burn both ships to the waves. Not that I'm complaining.”

“There can be only one reason: she and her captain wanted something that was aboard. It obviously wasn't gold since they attacked Navy vessels, but they wanted something.” Norrington couldn't imagine he had anything on board a mage would want, which narrowed the possibility down to persons. It was highly doubtful that Areen had wanted Shinarashi, and equally doubtful that she wanted the mortal Fox Commodore. None of the crewmen or command staff had any peculiarities a mage would value, which left… “What use could a magic seer be to a wizard like her?”

“Well, by killing him in a certain manner she could steal his ability,” Shinarashi said. “Other than that… nothing that I know of.” Norrington drummed his fingers on the table.

“How many did we lose, Miss Hito?” he finally asked.

“Ten to Stormwind’s fire, seven to the boarders. Twenty-four wounded, five of them crippled. Only one needed an amputation,” Shinarashi said. Norrington nodded, his eyes darkening to black. Shinarashi handed Norrington the list of dead. He took it.

“I wish your power didn't come with a caveat,” he said.

“All magic comes with a price. You pay with your substance or another’s, now or later, but you pay. The power for my magic comes from the sea and the mortal men around me. If I draw from the people around me, they die. And if I draw from the sea, I deplete the tides, the fish harvests, the whale pods… all of it.” Shinarashi sighed. “As long as we fight, there’s no way to prevent death. They die from the battle because I am not here to treat and triage, they die of energy drain to fuel my magic, or they die from starvation when there’s no fish harvest. We can only choose how much death we spend and make certain that what we purchase with those deaths is of sufficient value,” Shinarashi said softly, resting a hand on the Commodore’s arm.

“There were too many unnecessary deaths today.” Norrington sighed and shook his head, looking at the pile of sleeping dead. “That witch caught us off-guard. It took canon shot to get the men to move quickly, and three shots before it occurred to me to look to the water. Next time, we won't make those mistakes. Next time, there will be fewer casualties, and as Mr. Murtogg’s skill improves, times when I can just turn you loose,” Norrington paused again, looking at an indistinct point beyond the ship’s hull. He shook his head again. “Carry on, Miss Hito.” 

A few hours later, the _Dauntless_ ’s crew stood on deck, a row of shrouded bodies lying next to the railing. Even repairs to the _Intrepid_ ’s stern had halted for the funeral. No one wore their hats, and Shinarashi used a glamour to make her robes appear black. Out of deference to the wishes of the dead, she in no way followed Japanese funeral customs. Rather she held her hands clasped before her as those around her did.

“Jehovah is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters,” Norrington read, his voice far deeper than it was normally. “He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and they staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of Jehovah forever. Amen.” 

“Amen,” the men intoned.

“ _Nanji kara unde, hanareru,_ " Shinarashi murmured in soft Japanese. " _Shinde, Nanji no moto ni modoru. Wareware ga kono shindearu monotachi wo Nanji no moto ni hikimodosu. Douka, kono monotachi wo motenashite onegaiitashimasu._ ” The waves swelled and died, accepting the demon’s entreaty. The bodies of the brave sailors would be buried in the ocean floor; they would not be eaten.

“Peter Atwood, Able Seaman;” Norrington read as each corpse was thrown overboard, “Erwin Bulstrode, Able Seaman; William Carlson, Able Seaman; Joshua Carr, Able Seaman; David Corwin, Able Seaman -” The list went on, each name a summation of a life that was over. All the hopes and dreams, everything possessed in that simple appellative was gone forever. At last, the final and most poignant name was read: “Marcus Black, Captain.” The splash of his burial was followed by a silence louder than any cries of grief.

"Once the _Intrepid_ is seaworthy, set sail for home, men. Lieutenant Groves, see to it,” Norrington ordered solemnly. He then went below. The crewmen looked at each other. They all knew that both Groves and Gillette were qualified for the post. Though Gillette was higher in rank, Groves was Captain Black’s protégé. 

Furthermore, the two men were tight friends, two points in a triangle of fondness. If one was promoted over the deserving other, that triangle might falter and crack. Nothing was quite as ominous to a sailor than a friendship broken by jealousy. It was bad luck. 

Shinarashi, though far closer to Gillette than Groves, understood the dynamic between them. And having seen the visible, but mercifully not total, separation between Murtogg and Mullroy since Murtogg had taken up talking to a fox (a much smaller variation than captaincy) she worried. And as much as she trusted Norrington-sama, the fact remained that he was first Commodore than James. They needed a captain. If the filling of that void destroyed or damaged a friendship, then that was a price Norrington was willing to pay. He would mourn in the early hours of morning, but he would decide what needed to be decided.

“When I hear people, civilians and midshipmen mostly,” Murtogg said, coming to stand next to Shinarashi at the rail, “talk about the glories of command, I laugh and laugh. Sometimes I can stop laughing before they start talking of bedlam homes and horses of air. Shinarashi, I want you do to me a favor.” Shinarashi looked over at her friend. “Let them keelhaul me, let them cut out my tongue, let them flog me till my back breaks… but for God’s sake, don't ever let them promote me.” The kitsune laughed, the laugh of the trickster blood in her veins. 

“We have an agreement.” 

The two healers went to check on their patients. Groves crossed their path heading for Norrington’s office, and upon knocking was allowed entrance. 

“Commodore Norrington,” Groves said nervously once he’d closed the door, “I have come to speak to you about Captain Black’s replacement. Permission to speak freely?”

“Permission granted,” Norrington said, setting down his quill and giving Groves his attention. “What is it you want to say, Theodore?”

“I've come to ask that you promote Lieutenant Gillette over myself. He has more experience than I. While it is true I have more of a knack with the men, it’s the Captain’s job to keep the men alive. That is a task that Andrew is far more capable of carrying out than me. It’s the first officer’s job to keep the crew happy, and I am ideally suited to that post. I ask that I be allowed to have it.” Groves’s lip twitched. “In summation, sir, if he can keep the pirates from killing me, I'll keep the men from killing him, sir.” 

“Thank you, Theodore. I will take your words under consideration. Dismissed,” Norrington said. He continued to work for several more minutes before he was interrupted by another knock. “Enter.” 

“Commodore,” Gillette said calmly, twisting his hat in his hands. “I ask permission to speak freely.” 

“Granted,” Norrington sighed, laying down his pen and folding his hands. “What can I do for you, Andrew?”

“I would like to ask that you give Theodore the captaincy.”

“I beg your pardon?” Norrington asked, certain he'd misheard. 

“James, you heard me just fine. I know as well as you do that the only two qualified for the post are Theodore and myself. And I'm telling you to give Theodore the ship,” Gillette snapped.

“Andrew, I don't need to remind you of your reaction when the _Dauntless_ picked us up in Portsmouth nine years ago. Ever since you've laid eyes on this ship, you've wanted it,” Norrington said, leaning forward and looking Gillette in the eyes. “You've spent more daydreams in fantasy about captaining this vessel than you've spent about pretty girls and wealth combined. You've done all but paint your name on the hull, and now you're telling me to give the _Dauntless_ to someone else?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I'm saying. You and I both know this isn’t going to work. If I haven't been chucked overboard in two weeks, you'll start asking Shinarashi what she’s been drugging the crew with,” Gillette said, his brown eyes locked on Norrington’s forehead. “An English crew will--” Gillette stopped himself and tried again, even though Black had said it often enough that Norrington knew what the end of that sentence was. “Theodore deserves command. And he wants this ship as much as I do.”

“No he doesn't,” Norrington said wearily. “Pretty girls definitely outweigh the _Dauntless_ in his fantasy life. I'll take your words into consideration, Andrew. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, James,” Gillette said, and withdrew. Once outside, he leaned against the door. Norrington was right: Gillette wanted this ship more than anything. That didn’t mean he wasn’t fool enough to know the world he lived in wasn’t what he wanted it to be. _Think of it this way, Andrew,_ he told himself firmly. _The First Lieutenant is Norrington’s aide. And as long as you stay by his side, you'll be happier than twenty captains._ Gillette pushed away from the door. He walked with a steady tread across the deck. _Just keep telling yourself that._

So it was that, when both men were summoned to Norrington’s office several hours after docking at Port Royal, each man went completely assured that he would not be promoted. Both had worked up exactly how he'd completely cover his disappointment, and how he'd congratulate the other. 

“While I was attempting to decide who would be the new captain,” Norrington said softly, sitting in his chair with the utmost calmness, “I witnessed a rather interesting phenomenon heretofore unseen in the annals of history since the dawn of the British Navy. Both of you… muttonheads… came to me in my office and demanded that you not be promoted, that the other one was far more deserving. I cannot decide if it was foolishness or friendship that motivated your actions, but there they stand.” Gillette looked at Groves in shock. He knew why he’d refused. He had never imagined Groves actually would.

“During his speech, Mr. Groves said something that was most likely unintentionally profound: it is the job of the captain to keep his men alive, and the job of the first officer to keep them happy. This is true. Therefore, the man most able to win a battle will captain, and the other will ensure that he is not ‘chucked overboard inside two weeks.’ Congratulations, Captain Gillette. The paperwork should be arriving at Governor Swann’s office as we speak, and the promotion ceremony will be in four days.”

Gillette was staring open-mouthed. He couldn’t think of a thing to say in any language. Captain. Captain Gillette. French and Irish both, and Captain besides – It just didn’t _happen_. 

His parents were going to be entirely beside themselves when he wrote them.

"Now, there’s a catch to this,” Groves said, laying an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “You have to be nice to me. If you're too snarky with me, I'll just stop playing go-between. You'll suffer mutiny and keelhaul, and then where will you be?”

Groves had refused. English, Black’s favorite, and he’d recommended Gillette as the better man for the job to the detriment of his own advancement.

“In the best company a man could ask,” Gillette said hoarsely. 

“You will be at my house in three hours,” Norrington continued. “First we'll let Pet throw beans at us, then you'll have dinner with me to celebrate.”


	3. Kesagiri

Four days later, after both ships had been fully repaired, the dual promotion ceremony was held in Fort Charles. It had not the pomp of Norrington's ceremony, but several times the merriment. No nobles save the Governor and the Turners – who were the Commodore’s personal friends – attended. This was a celebration for those who knew what the loss of a comrade meant, and knew the need to seize what joy you could before the next round of bullets came. 

The promotion itself was carried out with utter formality. The honor guard formed ranks, and the drum roll sounded through the warm afternoon. Gillette strode through the ranks, his back straight and his hands clenched behind his back so he wouldn't fiddle with anything. He approached Norrington and was promoted, then stood on Norrington's left side - not his customary position at the Commodore's right hand. The drum roll sounded again, and this time Groves began the march down the aisle of red-coated marines. Half-way to Norrington, Groves tripped. The lieutenant turned the trip into a roll, catching his fallen hat in his hand on the way up. He held the black felt aloft with a triumphant grin, put it on his head, and continued on his way. 

"Can't you ever be serious?" Norrington murmured, his lips barely moving. Groves's expression was not the least bit abashed. 

"I thought it was a good save, myself," the new first lieutenant said, taking his place on Norrington's right. The drums sounded again and everyone applauded.

The crowd broke up, swirling into groups. Some talked in small circles, while others formed a dance floor in one corner of the courtyard. Those marines and officers who played instruments made up an impromptu band. The formidable Mrs. Ashton would have been appalled to see ale served next to champagne, to see the First Lieutenant of the _Intrepid_ dancing a reel. Swann was mildly disproving, but Norrington had no protests, so the Governor held his peace. 

"What are these, exactly?" Governor Swann asked Norrington, who oversaw the merrymaking with a keen eye. Ever the Commodore, he did not join a jig nor imbibe of ale. Nevertheless, he was happy, and with that happiness contributed to the light atmosphere. The Commodore looked over to see what bit of food Swann had picked up from the table. 

"Crackers topped with wasabi. Miss Hito made it out of horseradish, and assures me that true wasabi tastes much better. I rather like this substitute." Norrington gestured to the odd morsels on his own plate. "These are onigiri. Miss Hito complains that the local ingredients don't have the proper taste, so she's had to alter the recipe. But once again, I find the substitute is very appetizing." Governor Swann shot the Commodore a dark look, but he tried one of the crackers. He choked, swallowing convulsively. 

"At least it doesn't have the aftertaste of these native spices," Swann said, utterly unimpressed with wasabi's sweet-hot taste. Hesitantly, he picked up an onigiri and tried it. The rice ball was far more to his liking. "What is this, you say?" Swann asked.

"Rice surrounding pickled ginger," Norrington said. "The green wrapping is seaweed." 

Swann stopped mid-chew. The Governor managed the supremely difficult task of swallowing while gagging. 

"I'm sorry, Governor Swann. You liked the seaweed well enough at breakfast last week, I didn't think you'd mind," Norrington apologized, offering the old man a glass of water.

"That's before I knew what it was-- at breakfast, you say?" Swann looked up, mortified. Norrington coughed discreetly. 

"Yes, well. You do remember the egg and pork wraps? That was seaweed." Norrington urged the glass of water again. 

"I thought it was some variety of pressed grape leaf," Swann said, looking ill. “It’s bad enough you hire Irish, must you subject me to their food--”

"I'm terribly sorry, I should have said something, and as I said, they’re actually Miss Hito’s recipes--" Norrington continued apologizing. Swann took the glass from the Commodore and downed the contents. He then walked away, stopping and telling everyone exactly what it is they were eating. Most of the sailors did not mind the seaweed in the slightest. After all, they’d spent a career picking weevils out of their food. The Turners, however, were glad of the Governor's warning.

"Military rations do broaden the palate. At least we know for certain this is seaweed. With salt pork you're not certain if it's pig or rat you're eating. Could be people, even. You’d never know," Norrington observed. Groves gagged.

"Don't say that, sir," he protested. 

"Well, it _is_ possible. Miss Hito informs me that the only difference between rat and pork is saltiness, and the brine would more than mask that difference," Norrington continued, as if discussing the weather. Groves gagged again.

"I swear if you keep talking--" Groves said viciously. 

"Mr. Groves, that is utterly uncivilized. I'm appalled at you." Groves snorted, acknowledging that Norrington had gotten the better of him.

"We're all appalled by Theodore," Gillette said merrily. "Most of us simply learn to live with it. Etruscus's true child, centuries past his time."

"Someone has to be," Groves said, deciding that it must be Take the Piss Out of Theodore Day and no one had bothered to tell him. "If it weren't for me, Commodore Norrington would be just another block of wood, and you, Andrew, would be an eternally square peg."

"And what shape am I now?" Gillette asked skeptically.

"Octagonal. You don't fit perfectly, but you can muddle on through. You'd still be getting pounded regularly, if it weren't for me," Groves said. "In fact, you've never gotten around to thanking me." Gillette leaned close, apparently examining Groves closely.

"Commodore, I diagnose a chronically swollen head. I recommend we soak the affected appendage immediately," Gillette said, his voice both clipped and wry.

"You're no doctor," Groves fired back. "Ask Miss Hito--” -- “Doctor Hito,” Gillette interjected as Groves carried on -- “she'll tell you that I'm right. Without me, you'd be insufferable." 

"You're both insufferable," Norrington said with exasperation, "incorrigible, and completely incapable of behaving like officers - Captain Gillette and First Lieutenant Groves." 

"I think he's going to throw our ranks at us whenever we're having the least bit of fun, don't you?" Groves said to Gillette. Gillette nodded.

"And I think he thinks we care."

"Wrong."

"Completely. A terrible misjudgment for a commander, wouldn't you say?"

"Simply a sin," Groves agreed. The corner of Norrington's mouth was jumping as he tried to keep a straight face.

"In fact, I think we should have him removed," Gillette continued.

"Absolutely not," Norrington said, straight-faced. "Without me around, this entire place would fall apart. The inmates cannot run the bedlam home, gentlemen." 

"Ah, did you hear? He thinks he's sane," Gillette said, ticking off points on his fingers. "He's got a spirit for a pet, a barbarian woman for a doctor, a magician for a nurse, a Frenchman for a captain and he's eating seaweed because he likes the taste. Do those sound like the actions of what any British tar would call a sane man?"

"Absolutely not. In fact, he's even got a god complex, thinking things can't run without him. No, sir, I'd have to say that the chief loon is running this little asylum," Groves waved his hand to indicate the fort. 

"Who's the greater lunatic, the lunatic or the lunatics who follow him into battle against undead pirates, a wizardess, and a water demon?" Norrington asked archly. 

"Excellent point, James," Gillette said. "We'd like to hand in our resignations at your earliest convenience."

"You two are the emperor of fiends incarnate, and I surrender," Norrington said, and left to fetch himself more water. Gillette and Groves congratulated themselves on their victory.

* * *

The next several weeks were both more difficult and easier than expected. 

Outside the Fort, Captain Black’s declaration stretched from beyond his grave as an augury. Father Driscoll’s sermons about not allowing savage notions to corrupt you even as you tried to civilize the savages were suddenly interspersed with the need to stand firm against papacy’s machinations. Kurtz redoubled his theories regarding the nature of Norrington’s championing of the Caption. His theories found a much wider audience than they had before. Furthermore, Norrington found himself with far more afternoons free for the ocean and evenings free from social engagements as his social calendar sharply declined yet again. 

As the Commodore’s personal income was derived from the military and he didn’t utilize credit, there wasn’t any sort of financial pressure which could be applied with the shunning. For the most part, Norrington enjoyed having time to read for pleasure, spend time with the people he actually liked, or simply complete his work and go to bed at a decent hour. The loss of face for the Commodore was harder on Gillette, stinging in places that never quite scabbed over. The Captain began making a point of accompanying Shinarashi to the market when she purchased herbs for her stores she could not harvest herself, even knowing he was borrowing trouble from Peter to pay Paul.

Inside the Fort, on the other hand, Black’s predictions proved entirely untrue. For all his tongue was sharp, Gillette’s heart was loyal. The bulk of the crew had always responded to that loyalty regardless of Gillette’s pedigree. It helped the Groves had backed Gillette’s advancement himself, despite being the opposing candidate. Neither had the Lieutenant exaggerated his ability to smooth over the feathers Gillette’s sharp tongue ruffled. For Groves, the more difficult task was learning and managing the sheer volume of clerical tasks that came with being Norrington’s aide. 

Mullroy was one of the minority discontented with the Commodore’s decision. He did not consider this any sort of victory for his people at all, which Murtogg found endlessly amusing.

"You laugh now," Mullroy groused on the _Dauntless_ 's deck one morning, "but you won't be laughing when he has you keelhauled for breathing while he's in a snit. There's no logic to Frenchmen, not at all." 

Murtogg grinned. "No logic and a bad temper? You brought down a bar in Belfast just because the bar wench's husband pinched her." 

"I was drunk. Captain Gillette has his snits sober," Mullroy said.

Murtogg shook his head, reassembling his musket. "You weren’t in the cockpit after Shinarashi killed the Blood Flag. The Captain’s a good man. You should give him a chance." 

"So are you, but you wouldn’t catch me putting you up for Captain," Mullroy said. Murtogg shrugged. "Do you hear that?"

"No," Murtogg began, and then stopped, listening. "Yes. It sounds like... singing." 

"Beautiful singing," Mullroy said, standing. "Like... angels." Others had noticed the song as well. All over the ship, men stopped what they were doing to listen to the piping music. The only one who did not pause was Gillette.

"Oh, come now, it's nothing that special," Gillette scoffed. "Get back to work." The men ignored him, gazing dreamily to the east. 

"Yes," Groves said, bemused. "Return to your posts, men. We have to discover the source of that song, and the ship won't sail itself." The order to sail closer to the music roused the men, who eagerly returned to their duties. The great ship turned, and began tacking east.

"Belay that," Gillette called sharply. To Groves he said, "I really don't see the need to investigate. It's obviously not a distress call." Groves said nothing. Gillette waved his hand in front of Grove's face, and received no response. None of the men had halted their efforts to change course.

"Isn't it the most wondrous sound you've ever heard?" Groves breathed, walking to the bow.

"No," Gillette said briskly. "It sounds like a twelve year-old on a pipe." Concluding that the crew's erratic behavior was in fact supernatural, Gillette dashed down the stairs only to be met at the below-deck stairs by Shinarashi, on her way up. 

"Sirens," the kitsune said without preamble. "The below-decks men are just now starting to hear it. The sirens will draw the men closer until the ship is beached upon the rocks." 

"And then?" Gillette asked, not certain he wanted to know.

"They feed off the death-energy and carrion of the drowning men."

"We need to stop this ship," Gillette said. "Will the men resist any attempt to get between them and the sirens?"

"Violently."

"I was afraid of that. I can't beat windward by myself, and dropping anchor will only delay the inevitable." Gillette snapped his fingers multiple times in short succession. "If the sound is drowned out?"

"The spell is broken," Shinarashi said. 

"Follow me, Doctor." Gillette eased around Shinarashi on the narrow stair and continued downwards toward the gundeck, explaining as he went. "We'll start setting off cannons, which should drown out the song long enough for me to get the gunnery crews going. With all guns firing, the song will be overpowered completely. Can sirens be killed?"

"By a ship of the line firing all decks? Most definitely," Shinarashi said, pausing before the selected cannon. "So now what do I do?" 

"You don't know how to operate a cannon?" Gillette asked. Shinarashi shook her head. The Captain handed the kitsune the taper. "When I say fire, touch that to this." Gillette pointed to the fuse, and proceeded to load the cannon. "Fire!" Shinarashi did as told, and the explosion's roar filled the room. 

"Cannon crews! Run out and fire at will!" Gillette bellowed, reloading the cannon. "Fire." Another roar deafened the gun crew, which belatedly leapt to work. Shinarashi and Gillette continued until the entire gun crew was firing, then they ran up the stairs. 

"Captain!" Groves demanded. "What are we shooting at?"

"Sound to quarters!" Gillette bellowed. Groves began shouting the appropriate orders. Gillette turned back to Shinarashi. "Doctor Hito, can you locate them?" She pointed to a small island on the horizon. 

Groves observed the island in his spyglass.

"Rocky shoals, dangerous currents. We'll only be able to use the long nines," Groves observed. "Are you certain that will be enough?"

"Sirens are deathly allergic to iron. Even a graze will be fatal," Shinarashi said, shouting to be heard over the din. Gillette nodded, and the _Dauntless_ sailed on. 

Gillette's plan was successful. The sirens did not realize their spell had been overridden until it was too late, and perished under a rain of grapeshot. The _Dauntless_ returned to its course, none the worse for wear. With the emergency handled, Groves was more fully briefed on the situation.

He asked the obvious question: "Why was it that every man on ship was bewitched but the Captain?" Gillette and Shinarashi exchanged a glance. Gillette knew the truth would get him hung, yet he couldn't fathom a plausible falsehood. And Shinarashi could not lie.

"A... behavioral oddity," the kitsune said after a pause. "Nature's response to the siren, I suppose. It's more prevalent in Greece and Japan than in the rest of the West, probably due to the more extensive siren populations that used to exist in those areas." 

"Hm. Well, Captain, I'm glad that you've such a deviation to your name." Groves clapped Gillette on the shoulder affably before continuing along the deck.

Gillette looked askance at Shinarashi. The demon woman shrugged.

* * *

The day after Seaman Davidson’s wedding dawned bright and early, with Norrington in a rare mood. He walked briskly to breakfast, a rarely-seen bounce to his step. The simalcrum followed at his heels. Shinarashi stroked her creation when it sniffed at her. 

"You're going to do something awful, aren't you?" Shinarashi asked upon seeing the sparkle in the Commodore’s eyes. 

"Drills," Norrington said. "After all the drinking yesterday, I imagine the men are going to be in a right state this morning, don't you? It's the perfect time for battle drills." 

"With canon fire," Shinarashi commented, taking her seat. The maids served a breakfast of sausage and pancakes. Norrington set a bowl of sausage and fruit on the floor. The small straw-and-wood fox ate it exactly as Shinarashi had in fox form: neatly and delicately. Shinarashi cut her meal into bite-sized portions before stabbing them with her fork. 

"Exactly," Norrington said with delight. "Eventually one would think they'd learn to moderate their drinking habits."

"You are a cruel man, James-sama." 

"It comes with command, Miss Hito," Norrington said, eating his own food with his customary polish. "Understand that I do not want you to give them any of your Eastern remedies for hangovers." 

"I have none," the kitsune said. "The ingredients do not grow in this tropical climate, and I can make no substitute." 

"Excellent."

"The alcohol is often all the joy and balm they have. Though conscription is practiced by every government, I have seen none as brutal as your Press. Did you know that Mr. Wainwright, gunner to canon twelve, has not seen his family in fifteen years? When one tour of duty ends, he is transferred immediately to another ship. And he is not the only one-"

"The Press is unpleasant, true," Norrington said with some sharpness. "But I will not have you tear down the Service." 

"I apologize for causing offense," Shinarashi said in the tone of formal sincerity peculiar to the Orient, as far as Norrington knew. "It was not my intent, Norrington-sama. I was merely saying that there are good reasons for the men's abuse of alcohol." 

"That does not keep you from adding paracress to your medical stores," Norrington said, mollified.

"True," Shinarashi said, setting down her fork. "Speaking of paracress, Mr. Gates passed last night." 

“I understood when I allowed you your poisoned alcohol that some would not heed the warning,” Norrington stated. He lowered his eyes. “Sometimes an object lesson is necessary to ensure that the rules are obeyed.”

When they’d finished breakfast, Norrington stood up and lifted the simulacrum to his shoulders. Shinarashi said followed Norrington outside. She and Norrington walked to Fort Charles together. Norrington watched the people he protected as they went about their lives. Many of them called greetings to the Commodore that he returned. It was a change from last year, when he'd walked down the streets looking at no one, a change that the common people appreciated. They laid the change at the feet of Groves, not realizing that the source was the fox-spirit at his side.

Norrington arrived at the Fort, listen to Gillette's report, and then commanded the attention of both ships' crews.

"Since you all are rested and rejuvenated from your celebrations, I think now is an excellent time for a little practice. Doubtless you all remember the incident with Areen Stormwind," Norrington announced loudly. The crewmen shifted uncomfortably, muttering. They knew that tone in Norrington's voice. "The _Reine Anne_ raked us twice before you were prepared for battle. And why? Because you thought it was a drill, and so you felt speed wasn't necessary. So we are going to sail out into the bay and have a drill. And then we will have another, and another, and another, until your response time is as fast and consistent." Norrington's voice deepened. "We will drill all day and all night if we have to. So do be quick about learning. Afterward, we'll be having a friendly race."

"Look alive, _Intrepid_ ," Gillette called curtly. "If you loose that friendly race, you'll face more than a loss of face. You'll face the lash, all of you." The murmuring of the _Intrepid_ 's crew turned to grumbling. "Don't complain at me. _You're_ the ones who lazed about in a summon to quarters. Now, ready to sail." 

The crews readied both ships, sailed out into the bay, and began canon drills. The hungover men dragged their feet at first, wincing and cringing from the pain. However, soon it dawned on them that the faster they were, the fewer loud noises they'd hear. And so they picked up the pace.

An hour into the training exercise/punishment, the crews' speed met Norrington's expectations. The race was held, and the _Intrepid_ won. While the crew desired above all things to be rid of their captain, they did have to admit his motivational skills were effective.

The two Navy vessels docked. Immediately, the resupply crews began loading more powder, for both ships had been firing blank rounds. Norrington oversaw the loading, and turned when Lieutenant. Groves commanded his attention. 

"There's a Navy ship sailing into port, Commodore. She's the _Surprise_." Norrington took the spyglass from Groves and looked for himself. 

"That's Admiral Harfeyen's ship," Norrington mused. "What would he be doing here?" The Commodore gazed silently for a few more moments, then called orders down to the men. "Look alive! The Admiral's coming. Surprise inspection! Get ready! I want everything as close to perfect as earthly possible." 

The marines and sailors paused for a fraction of a second, and then exploded into activity. The signs of everyday activity were put away, tidiness raised to fastidiousness. Boots and shoes were given a last-minute shine, dust was flecked from hems and shoulders. The loading process was finished apace, the cargo-holds neatened. By the time the _Surprise_ docked, a full honor guard had been assembled. The fort stood in complete readiness for inspection. 

A bosun's whistle sounded. The gangplank was extended. A commodore descended first, followed by six marines. The marines presented arms, and the admiral walked down to the dock. He passed beneath the muskets and stopped before Norrington. Harfeyen was small and portly, possessing a Roman nose dusted with freckles and eyes that were neither large nor small, neither dull nor sparking - the eyes of a non-being. Fort Charles's Commodore and his men saluted. Admiral Harfeyen returned the salute. 

"Commodore Norrington," Harfeyen said by way of greeting. "I believe you are already acquainted with my aide, Commodore Clark?" Clark was a tall man, whip-thin even at his fifty-two years. His black eyes glittered with malice beneath his gray hair. 

"We served together on my first assignment. He was the First Lieutenant at the time," Norrington said politely. What he did not mention was that a report from then-Midshipman Norrington about Clark's dereliction of duty had led to the man's being demoted. Were it not for that black mark, Clark would most likely be on his way to if not an admiral by now. 

"This is my aide, First Lieutenant Theodore Groves. This is the Captain of the _Dauntless_ , Andrew Gillette," Norrington said, gesturing to each in turn. 

"Excellent," Harfeyen said. The Admiral walked past Norrington, passing through the ranks of men. Norrington walked to the right behind Harfeyen, Clark beside him. 

"Who is this?" Harfeyen had stopped before Shinarashi, who stood with the other idlers, or civilian personnel. 

"My chief surgeon," Norrington said. 

"You look like a woman, mister," Harfeyen said sharply. "And what _is_ that you're wearing?" Shinarashi glanced at Norrington, who indicated she should respond. English military discipline was often mystifying to Shinarashi, especially the concept of being asked a question you were not allowed to answer. 

"Hakama and a kimono, Admiral-san," Shinarashi said respectfully. "It is the standard clothing of my people in a situation that may require the need for utmost mobility at any time. I am a woman, Admiral-san, Hito Shinarashi by name." 

Harfeyen stiffened. 

"A... woman? As a doctor? A paid part of your crew? Is this a joke, Commodore Norrington? If so, it is in very poor taste." 

"It is no jest, Admiral," Norrington said, standing at formal at-ease. "Miss Hito is a castaway. Her medical skills are far superior to those of anyone else in Port Royal, despite her race and gender. Amputations have actually become uncommon since Miss Hito took control of the cockpit." Harfeyen grunted his disbelief, but passed on. Shinarashi sighed in relief. 

Harfeyen continued through the Fort, inspecting it from ground to tower. He found very little grounds for complaint, to his great annoyance. 

"Would the Admiral join me for tea in my office?" Norrington asked politely, gesturing. 

"Thank you, Commodore. Lead on." As Harfeyen walked beside Norrington, he glanced down at the simulacrum at Norrington's heels. "Interesting totem you have there. Whatever possessed you not to hunt such a magnificent animal? Perhaps I should remedy that while I'm here."

"I would prefer not, Admiral," Norrington said, frowning. "Pet is just that, a pet. I should be most distressed if something were to happen to her."

"A hound is a better companion for one of your station," Clark said. "The fox is a symbol of cunning and dishonesty. A poor totem for the scourge of the pirates." The whip-like man's tone negated the compliment in his words. Norrington ignored the insult. The Commodore served tea to both gentlemen, and then sat behind his desk. The simulacrum jumped out the window, and several moments later Pet jumped in and claimed Norrington's lap.

"I've heard some things about you, Norrington, and I'm curious about some of your decisions," Harfeyen said in a tone of polite superiority. "Wolfsbane and silver bullets? Drills on fighting magical creatures? What is it exactly that you're thinking, man?" 

Norrington bowed his head, thinking. His first instinct was to tell the truth, that a war of magic was imminent. However, he had no proof but Shinarashi's testimony that these weren't just isolated incidents... and he knew that using a demon as evidence would only motivate a panicked mob to kill said demon to make the monsters go away. Norrington knew his history, both the Black Plague and the Salem witch trials. Most people would follow the stupidest course of action in any serious situation. 

"I know what I'm about to say is going to sound mad, but please be patient. If you want, and you will, you can ask any of my men and they will affirm that what I tell you is true," Norrington said after a pause. He then proceeded to tell the tale of Barbossa and his men. Harfeyen listened, his face growing more and more incredulous with each passing moment. After Norrington concluded, Harfeyen burst into laughter.

"Are you telling me you spent hundreds of pounds of your own money on a hoax?" he gasped between chuckles. Clark did not join in the laughter. "Did you honestly expect me to fall for such a jest?" 

_His mind is closed,_ Pet commented, licking a paw. _Until a kraken pulls him overboard, he will never believe that magic is anything but a myth. He might even conjecture that the kraken is merely a giant squid without a mind._ Watching the oblivious humor in Harfeyen's eyes, Norrington was forced to concur. 

"Well," Norrington said, forcing himself to look abashed, "it would be foolish of me to say yes now." 

"A good jest, Norrington, and that Lieutenant Groves's idea, if I read that man's posture right. If I were a few years younger, you'd have fooled me," Harfeyen said, waving a finger at Norrington. Clark's eyes narrowed. He knew that Norrington was no prankster, especially not to a superior. Pet's ears flattened, and she bared her teeth at the wraith in warning. Clark glared back malevolently. Norrington tapped Pet on the tip of her nose, reminding her to behave herself. Pet flashed her teeth again and subsided. 

Clark smirked, and then realized he was gloating over winning a battle of wills with an animal. Faintly confused as to why an animal's opinion had mattered to him, Clark blinked rapidly. Had Norrington contracted some form of contagious insanity, perhaps? Now it was Pet who flattened her whiskers. Norrington tapped her nose again. 

"If we may return to business," Norrington said, still a trace of forced embarrassment to his voice, "to what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

"Oh, a simple surprise inspection," Harfeyen said breezily. A sharp tang assaulted Norrington's nose, with a twinge of dissonance. At the same time, Pet said, _he lies_.

 _Ridiculous_ , Norrington thought, _why would he lie about such a thing?_ He dismissed Pet's statement. 

"I hope Fort Charles has passed?" Norrington asked, smiling politely.

"I have yet to see," Harfeyen said. "Over the next few weeks I intend to observe the day-to-day operations of Fort Charles. That is what I'm inspecting. Now, if you will excuse me, I am really quite fatigued. I assume there are quarters for me?"

"Governor Swann has graciously agreed to allow you to stay at his home," Norrington said, standing. He summoned Gillette to show the Admiral and his aide to the Swann manor. After the group had departed, Norrington looked down at Pet, who sat on the corner of his desk.

"Now what is this notion of yours that Admiral Harfeyen is disguising his true purpose here?" Pet's tail thrashed, and her muzzle wrinkled. "You smelled it. He could be lying about the 'simple' part, you know. An inspection of command abilities is often a prelude to a promotion or transfer to a post of greater responsibility. The admiralty _has_ been trying to make greater use of my skills for months now." Pet's tail twitched, and her ears laid flat against her head. "Your confidence in my abilities touches me." Pet snorted. "Listen: Admiral Harfeyen is an honest and admirable man. If he is lying, he has a good reason for it." Pet snorted again, dropped the floor, and trotted out the door. Norrington stared after her, shaking his head. 

"Paranoia is a way of life for the Japanese, isn't it?" he asked no one in particular. With a sigh, he returned to his paperwork.

Pet went to Murtogg and jumped up next to him on the battlement he patrolled. Murtogg stopped, gazing over the port city.

"Hello, Pet," Murtogg said, a wide grin lighting his face. Peter's eyebrow twitched, and he said nothing. Mullroy would not speak to Pet when she was in fox form. He considered it demeaning. "Admiral Harfeyen? Well, as far as anyone knows, he's a jolly, honorable sort. His men have no complaints. His tactics on the battlefield are top-notch, that's where his career was made."

"He's not so good with pirates," Mullroy said, looking as if he were speaking to Murtogg. "He tried to fight them like they were soldiers, and they kept breaking his line." Pet's left ear flicked. 

"No, nothing of that sort. He's a richer than most admirals, but that could simply be smart investment of prize money," Murtogg said, looking at Mullroy. Mullroy nodded.

"Definitely a possibility. But for one thing, I'd rather have him than Gillette. Harfeyen's not the sort for lashing, cat or tongue." 

Pet's right ear flicked, and the tip of her tail twitched. Mullroy growled, prefectly capable of hearing Pet, even if he wouldn't talk to her. 

"Peter doesn't just 'go along with' sarcasm, Pet," Murtogg said soothingly. "He thinks it's insulting to his honor, and since he can't scuffle with Gillette to assuage the sting, it's like bullying." Pet's nose dipped to the ground and came back up. "It may be just his way, but it offends a lot of people." 

"It offends more than it doesn't," Mullroy said. Pet's ears drooped. "He better adapt faster, before the Master-at-Arms gets too used to all these beatings. I'd hate to see him go through the withdrawals again." Pet's ears flicked. "Well... er... I may say sarcastic things, but... but I don't say them while the people have to listen to them."

"Just behind their backs?" Murtogg asked.

"Yes!" Mullroy said, then stopped. "Not like that I mean, I mean-" 

"Peter?" Murtogg interjected. "You're digging yourself in a hole. But if you don't feel like putting the shovel down, do pick me up some fireworks when you reach China."

"That man's a bad influence on you," Mullroy complained dourly. 

"Lieutenant Groves? I heard him use that line on the Commodore just last week." Murtogg grinned, enjoying being a step ahead during a battle of wits. Mullroy sulked, and Pet licked his hand in a generally consoling manner. Mullroy scratched her ears. 

"I still don't like you," he muttered, "but a truce is fair enough." Pet nodded. She slipped from beneath Mullroy's hand and hopped into Murtogg's arms. Murtogg stroked the fox and watched the children play in the street, a strange smile upon his face. Mullroy observed his friend's face closely, emitted a low whistle and walked away. Pet noticed, and looked after him, her head cocked in puzzlement.

"I don't know," Murtogg said, looking fondly down at the fox. "Peter gets odd turns sometimes." Pet sneezed in reply. After a while, her tail swished. "I'm not saying that you shouldn't be suspicious of him, since you did smell the lie. Just give him a chance. The Commodore is a good judge of character, and Harfeyen's been dying to better his career. There's a possibility that the Admiral's motives might be good." Pet twitched her tail. "We all get disappointed when we trust. But if we stop trusting, we're worse than the animals."

Pet was forced to agree. Admiral Harfeyen would get his chance. But woe betide him should he hold ill will for Norrington. Pet had lost one family already, and she had no intention of losing another. To anything.


	4. Urakesagiri

_**April 7, 1723** _

_**Pet is a confusion to me. Not simply the natural confusion that is Woman, or the confusion that is the union of two cultures, but of the deep-seated kind that comes from the miscommunication of souls. There are many times that I can tell from the shape of her mouth what she is thinking, and other times that all her words and wisdom cannot convey her meaning.** _

_**Pet has taken it into her head that the Harfeyen is dishonest. Nothing he does or says can change that. He is jolly, courteous, and blustery. He has the same affable naivete about pirates that Governor Swann has about matters military. Pet, however, sees his incompetence as dishonesty.** _

_**Take our first pirate-chase with the good Admiral aboard. We were chasing the Black Pearl. Sparrow hasn't actually committed piracy since last June, being content to explore and carouse. But there is still an active order for his arrest, and chasing him is good practice for the men. We are fast running out of targets to keep their skills sharp, though I know that that will change for the worse very soon.** _

_**As we were chasing Sparrow, Admiral Harfeyen ordered us to cut around a nearby island and, as the landlubber says, cut him off at the pass. An excellent war tactic, but poor for pirates. Sparrow read us like a book. He had long ago made good his escape when we appeared around the island's northern cape. As it was only Sparrow, I was not concerned.** _

_**A week later, while patrolling near a whaling vessel on its way back north, we came upon a sloop which proceeded to engage us. That is to say, the Dauntless, a ship-of-the-line. I suspected something like the Reine Anne incident. I had Murtogg brought up from the cockpit and told him to keep a sharp eye. He saw nothing amiss. Then the sloop made her move. Instead of merely putting holes through my ship, her cannon balls started conflagrations. I had Murtogg convey orders to Pet to douse the fires - though I did not mention before Harfeyen that she was to use the sea to do it. I asked the men who would volunteer to assist. Mr. Allan valiantly agreed to supply the energy for the magic, even knowing the drain might kill him (he is now recovering nicely).** _

_**With the sloop's advantage thus reduced to nothing, I ordered Lieutenant Groves to press onward. Harfeyen ordered a retreat, allowing the sloop to escape. This was understandable. How could Harfeyen have known that the waves soaking the flames were not accidents, and would continue? He believed that I was risking my flagship over a sloop not worth the cost should the Dauntless come to harm. Once again, it is understandable that Harfeyen, not knowing me save by report and reputation, might think me a fanatic.** _

_**He has yet to do anything actively duplicitous. Indeed, he treats Pet with respect and politeness now that he has seen her skill firsthand. And yet... and yet she deeply distrusts him. I cannot fathom what twisted demon logic she uses to justify her distrust.** _

_**April 13, 1723  
At four o'clock in the afternoon, Port Royal was stormed by the sloop from before, mockingly named the Prince Edward. This time the Captain brought with him a flock of stormcrows, a creature I had not encountered in my studies. According to Pet, they are made by a type of magic called "necromancy." The necromancer catches and kills a flock of crows. He then takes a dying person's soul - a heinous crime in its own - and uses that soul to resurrect the flock. The stormcrow flock is intelligent like a man, both spy and an instrument of... air warfare would be the word for it, I suppose. There is a worse variant called Gore Crows, but Shinarashi did not elaborate on their nature.** _

_**The stormcrows overheard our orders and relayed them back to the pirate captain, thus losing us the element of surprise. They also dropped those flame-making cannonballs upon our heads. Keep in mind that at the same time, the Prince Edward was bombarding our shores with these inflammatory projectiles.** _

_**Frankly, I don't know how long we can keep taking these kinds of losses.** _

_**Pet summoned the sea as best she could, draining first Mr. Martin and then Mr. Granger; but she could not summon the waves needed to douse the onshore flames without raising suspicion on the part of the townsfolk.** _

_**Captain Gillette began firing silver shot at the stormcrows, and cost the necromancer many spies. His quick thinking decimated the flock to half-size, saving many lives.** _

_**Then, suddenly, the bombardment stopped. Boats were launched from the Prince Edward, boats filled with undead pirates, separate from Barbossa's curse but just as immortal.** _

_**Save one thing. Reasoning that they would not have stopped the bombardment unless it were a detriment to them, I sent Groves into the town with a detachment armed with torches instead of swords. I was correct: the necromancer's undead pirates were flammable. Groves rallied the townsfolk admirably, while Gillette and I mustered the Dauntless and Intrepid.** _

_**It was then that Admiral Harfeyen belayed my orders.** _

_**I attempted to reason with him that the flaming cannonballs posed no threat to us, and that the skeletal pirates were also no threat, but he would not be swayed. I suppose that he panicked at the site of mobile skeletons. Most people do.** _

_**I could not allow the Prince Edward to escape. No other port had an ocean-elemental demon, no other port's patrol had the experience with undead pirates we did. Another port would fall. The Prince Edward would slaughter many innocents, to say nothing of the financial misfortune his plunders would cause his surviving victims.** _

_**I ignored the Admiral's orders, and pursued the Prince Edward.** _

_**We came to broadsides on both sides, firing all lines. We boarded almost immediately, reducing the inflammatory cannonballs a moot advantage. The crew fought very valiantly - our losses were not due to cowardice or lack of skill.** _

_**I led a detachment to the bilge, leaving the mortal pirate captain to Gillette, and there found the necromancer. He was involved in another spell. A dark, whirling gate stood before him, and fog poured through the iron and gauze contraption. The sound of rushing water filled the room, which was oddly cold. I could see my breath. The necromancer chanted in a language I had never heard, pouring a dark red liquid from a cup into a bowl that bubbled even though there was no flame below it.** _

_**I cannot describe what overcame me then, as I saw the spell-work being done. It was as if I was watching another's actions, not my own. A creature appeared from the gate and drank the frothing liquid. It was vaguely a man, or rather, as if a man made of clay had been fired from a cannon. It was twisted, misshapen, a monstrosity.** _

_**And it attacked. It flew through my men, each dead before he struck the floor. Seven men, gone in a whooshing black breeze.** _

_**It flew threw me. For a second, it seemed that I was separate from my body. It was so cold. There are no words to describe the soul-deep chill of that half-formed thing's claws.** _

_**And then I felt nothing.** _

_**I awoke on the floor, the monster gone and the necromancer screaming at me. I killed him before he could collect himself.** _

_**I left the bilge to find that Gillette had the pirates well in hand. We brought the Prince Edward home in triumph, while I explained to the Admiral that magic was real.** _

_**He had me flogged for disobeying orders, for pursuing the Prince Edward. Thirty strokes, bound and shirtless like a seaman.** _

_**I understand that the chain of command must be maintained, but at the same time, his orders were given in panic. His orders would have cost the lives he is sworn to protect. After the battle was over and there was no reason for danger, justice would hold that he acknowledge that I had acted in the Navy's best interests. I would not expect him to acknowledge his panic in front of his subordinates, of course. Merely to refrain from punishing me for keeping a cool head.** _

_**It is beyond egotism to expect irrational orders to be obeyed unquestioningly.** _

_**On the other hand, I doubt that Admiral Harfeyen's military victories could have occurred if he were so arrogant. An arrogant commander dares the universe to defeat him, and will fall.** _

_**It is a puzzlement.** _

_**April 30, 1723  
I should have expected this. If magic is real, then magical creatures must be as well.** _

_**My life is turning into a fairy-tale. Skeletal minions, demons, ghosts, wizards, mermaids... and now a dragon.** _

_**If old Captain Gloucester had told me when I was a midshipman that I'd be wrestling fairies like a knight of the Round Table, I'd have laughed in his face. This is the age of reason, damn it. Superstition is supposed to be behind us!** _

_**On the other hand, it's only the age of reason because a batch of arrogant mages decided they were too good for the rest of us and carted off with the magic. It makes my mind hurt, to think that magic is the natural order of things. The natural laws are actually unnatural, and our age of reason is nothing but a pale reflection of reality.** _

_**On the whole, however, I'd say the men and I are coping better than Admiral Harfeyen and Commodore Clark. The Admiral panicked again when the dragon - a sea-dragon, of course – attacked a small village just south of Port Royal. It smashed a few buildings ate 20 civilians and 3 army men, and swam away.** _

_**I gave chase.** _

_**We took barrels of bloody meat from the slaughterhouse and loaded them on the Intrepid. I commandeered a whaling vessel docked for restocking, and both ships gave chase. The speedy Intrepid outdistanced us and then dumped the bloody morsels overboard. Very soon, the dragon appeared, attracted by the smell of blood. My whaling vessel soon caught up. A harpoon to the eye avenged the twenty-three lost men and prevented further losses.** _

_**Unfortunately, I acted in counter to Harfeyen's orders to let the dragon go. Another humiliating thirty strokes on half-healed flesh.** _

_**The men's angry cries of protest were warming to the soul. Gillette had to be physically restrained from coming to my aid, and Pet - in fox form - tore a fist-sized chunk out of Harfeyen's leg. Of course, I disciplined her for it. At the same time, that she would do so for me is comforting. Indeed, without the loyalty of my men, the beating would have hurt far more. I have never had so many nurses before. It was almost embarrassing.** _

_**Almost.** _

_**I think that it disconcerted Admiral Harfeyen, to see my crew follow me after a fearsome dragon and further care for me after a beating. He believes, I think, that the crew should have balked. And they should have been quite happy to see a superior "get some of his own back." That is, after all the usual reaction.** _

_**Perhaps that is it. Perhaps the Admiral thinks that I am forming a cult of personality here, and so interprets my heedlessness of his orders for egotism. It could also be why he ordered me to take down my colors, another gesture the men did not agree with.** _

_**I shall inform him of my reasoning immediately, and hopefully assure him I am no would-be Messiah.** _

_**May 18, 1723  
I had thought we had grown beyond this. I had thought that after our discussion on the thirtieth of April, that the Admiral and I had reached an understanding. Apparently, I was wrong. ** _

_**Admiral Harfeyen is completely incapable of dealing effectively with either magic or his own fear of it. A set of pirates caught the Dauntless unawares on the 15th. They had a chimera aboard, and it set upon us.** _

_**Pet dealt with the chimera. I would not think a wooden sword capable of doing such damage.** _

_**The men and I set at the pirates. Harfeyen ordered us not to board, but rather to pound them into submission with our superior armament. That does not work with pirates. They cut and run.** _

_**Nevertheless, I obeyed. To no one's surprise but Clark and Harfeyen, the pirates escaped.** _

_**Harfeyen said that the pirates were too "small a catch" to warrant a chase.** _

_**They had a chimera. That means they can get another. As I explained to Harfeyen, Shinarashi’s skills give us an advantage the other ports do not have. (I could not bring myself to tell the Admiral Pet is a fox-demon. He would destroy her for her magical nature, and I cannot lose my ace in the hole.) As the epicenter of the Barrier's decomposition, we must deal with the magical creatures. No one else is capable.** _

_**I gave chase. Without their chimera, they surrendered.** _

_**I was given forty strokes for my orders. Around twenty I started to lose consciousness. Pet, in her role as surgeon, defended me. She was unsuccessful, and the beating continued. I passed out at twenty-seven. At least I did not feel the remaining thirteen strokes. This beating on top of the others put me to bed, I am afraid. I have been incapable of even writing these past five days, between my injuries and laudanum.** _

_**Theodore tells me that Pet was also flogged for defiance. This must have cost her, letting a mortal strike her. Her submission to discipline is a mark of progress. Nevertheless, to give a woman, surgeon or no, twenty strokes is cruel.** _

_**Admiral Harfeyen's pride, it seems, knows no bounds. He will not accept any sign that he might be in error. I will endeavor to continue to explain that only Fort Charles is adequately qualified to destroy magical creatures, but I am despairing of success.** _

_**May 31, 1723  
After magical pirates, the usual ones seem almost tame. ** _

_**The Sainte Marie, a double-decker, tried to strike against Port Royal on the 28th. The pirate Captain said he was Captain Jack Sparrow.** _

_**We fought them to the point of surrender. After all, my crews have had to be faster and sharper than the average for months now.** _

_**Admiral Harfeyen ordered that we burn the vessel with all hands aboard. No trial, just a single mass execution.** _

_**I refused. There was no other option. Even pirate scum deserve a trial. And there was a good chance the double-decker was stolen Naval property.** _

_**Admiral Harfeyen and Commmodore Clark relieved me of duty and overruled my orders. The crew had no choice but to obey. I do not blame them for the massacre. In my eyes and the eyes of justice, their hands are clean. Benjamin can't hardly look in the mirror to shave, many of the men can't, which pangs me. They should not be bearing Harfeyen's guilt.** _

_**Less than the shame of my men, but still a shame: I was beaten again. Forty strokes, even though I lost consciousness at eighteen. Clark delivered the beating personally. I think the Master-at-Arms was quite put out.** _

_**Andrew arrived during writing. He said the Sainte Marie was actually the H.M.S. Horizon, stolen from the Boston detachment three months ago.** _

_**I doubt that Harfeyen will apologize. His overweening pride is-- I cannot fathom why the man is still alive. He should have overestimated his abilities and died in battle by now.** _

_**An irreverent thought unbefitting a man of the Navy, but there it stands. Harfeyen is the incompetent, petty brass I had hoped to escape in this colonial backwater.** _


	5. Nagi

One of the advantages to being an officer of the Navy was onshore quarters. The seamen lived on ship whether in port or no, and the idlers had a campaign bed in their Fort shop. But the officers had barracks like the marines and, as First Lieutenant, Groves merited his own quarters in the fort, even if they were only little larger than a lady's closet. There was room for his bed, armoire, chest, and a small table with folding chairs he'd won in a poque game, but that was it. Around this small table sat three persons, sharing a pot of tea and a grievance.

"I still say James should be here," Groves said, tapping his cup. The cup was old and chipped, but Groves did not replace it. It had been his mother's gift to him upon promotion to Lieutenant, as it had been her mother's gift to her upon graduation from finishing school. Groves had no sisters, and so the tea set had become his.

"Absolutely not," Gillette insisted sharply. "Plausible deniability. What we're doing is bordering on mutiny. James is in enough trouble for insubordination as it is." 

Shinarashi, who held her cup two-handed in Oriental style, nodded her agreement. "What I do not understand is this: why does Harfeyen-san not courts-martial the Norrington-sama?"

"That," Gillette muttered, "is an excellent question. He could make a case for it by now if he wished. It probably wouldn't result in a death sentence, too many mitigating circumstances in my opinion, but he could summon an inquiry and probably get Norrington dishonorably discharged."

"I don't think the good Admiral wants to get anywhere near a board of inquiry," Groves said slowly. "The Horizon incident was very suspicious. How did that ship go from 'not worth the effort' to 'doesn't even deserve a trial'? It sounds to me like those pirates knew something Harfeyen didn't want them blabbing at a trial."

"You're not suggesting-" Gillette gasped. Groves nodded. "That's... that's worse than anything we imagined. Do you think Clark is in on it?"

"Most definitely. No matter how badly he's got it in for James, if he were above board he'd be just as uncomfortable with what Harfeyen is doing as we are."

"Excuse me!" Shinarashi said, setting down her teacup to wave her hand to summon the attention of the two men. "What are you talking about?"

"We know that someone's been selling shipping information to pirates. We - that is to say, Commodore Norrington, Andrew, the Governor, and myself - had figured it was a dishonest clerk. If Admiral Harfeyen is in fact the one on the pirates' pay roll..." Groves trailed off.

"Admiral Harfeyen is in command of all the Caribbean Island detachments," Shinarashi said, toying with her cup. "That compromises the entire Navy. What's to say he's not selling tactics and weapons strength information as well? Or that he wouldn't do the same to an enemy if we went to war? He has no honor."

"We should tell James," Gillette said, standing.

"Tell him what?" Groves said, laying a restraining hand on his superior's arm. "I love James like a brother, but you and I both know he can get a little black-and-white about the Service sometimes. He still believes Harfeyen can't handle magic. And he won't believe otherwise until we can get proof."

"That's going to be nearly impossible," Shinarashi said as Gillette reluctantly sat down. "This kind of thing isn't kept on paper, if I am not very much mistaken. And if he keeps burning up the witnesses, that's going to make getting testimony very difficult. I think that we should... consider a more direct route."

Gillette and Groves stared at the demon.

"It's a very common method," Shinarashi said calmly. "Harfeyen-san has forsaken his honor and betrayed his duty, and then further punished the Commodore for that abdication. He doesn't even have as much honor as a criminal."

"I'll support a hanging, but not a murder," Gillette said. "Until we have hard evidence he's guilty, there is no 'direct route.'"

"Oh, be sensible," Shinarashi said, flicking her hand in disdain. Her voice was as matter-of-fact as someone discussing the color of the sky. "I wasn't considering an assassination, though that might not be a bad idea as an alternative. Merely torturing the information out of him. If he's so scared of magic, a few fox-fire burns should do the trick."

"That's bloody cold for a doctor!" Groves spluttered.

"If the Admiral is what he acts like, then he has forfeited his right to claim humane treatment," Shinarashi said, "even by your loose mortal standards."

"If I’m ever on the other side of the Barrier, remind me not to commit a crime," Groves told Gillette, shifting uncomfortably. Gillette nodded, flicking his eyebrows in agreement.

"No torture, either, Shinarashi. Just... just evidence. That's an order," Gillette said.

"Very well," Shinarashi said. "Though how will we get said evidence, if we do not interrogate him?"

"Wait until he does something so outrageous that it's obvious what kind of man he is, if we're correct," Gillette said firmly. "That's the problem: we don't even have enough evidence to be certain. He's a liar and he killed those pirates, but there might be another explanation. We can't afford vigilantism."

"There is one other thing. I do not know how long the crew will stand for the Admiral’s treatment of the Commodore," Shinarashi murmured, taking a sip of her tea. "Things could get very unpleasant for Harfeyen-san."

"We'll simply have to trust in the discipline James has installed in them," Gillette sighed. "And hope Harfeyen errs soon, for James's sake as much as the crew's. Speaking of... how is he, Doctor? Has there been any change since yesterday?"

"No," Shinarashi said. "Each beating adds to the damage from the last. I've done what I can, but his entire system is drained with the energy of healing. The relief of duty, though it stings his pride, was good for him. If he sustains no more new beatings, he should be fine. If he continues at this rate... there will be permanent consequences."

The room was silent for a long while. Finally, the three stood and left the room. The eldest botswain stood outside.

"I speak for the crew," the man said in a low tone. "Both of them. Whatever you're planning, we're behind it." And the botswain walked away. Groves, Gillette, and the Doctor exchanged glances.

"What is the punishment for mutiny?" Shinarashi asked.

"Death," Gillette said calmly.

"Ah."

* * *

Harfeyen did return Norrington to duty at the end of that week. The men of Fort Charles - and its lone woman - cheered until each one's throat was hoarse. The men patrolling the topmost tower flew the Fox Commodore's colors proudly, until Harfeyen made them take the silver and black flag down. The Navy men did not grumble at this order: they snarled. It was not only for Norrington's prestige they grieved, but for their own as well. Being one of the Fox Commodore's men was far superior to being a common detachment seaman.

Norrington's first act upon returning to command, after ensuring that Captain Gillette and First Lieutenant Groves had taken adequate care of Fort Charles during his forced leave of absence, was to take the _Dauntless_ out on patrol. Admiral Harfeyen, of course, went along.

The good Commodore did not have to look for Trouble. Trouble had made herself Norrington's lover; upon his return to duty, she paid a visit to her absent paramour.

The bright ocean waves swirled upon the deck, forming a tower. When the water dissipated, a woman stood in its place. She was an olive-skinned beauty, with black hair and blacker eyes, most certainly Greek. When she spoke, her voice was low enough to be a man's, but distinctly feminine.

"Good day, gentlemen. Whose acquaintance am I making?"

Norrington stepped forward. He felt oddly removed from the situation; neither fear nor attraction clouded his judgment.

"I am Commodore Norrington of the British Royal Navy. Your name, Madame?" His manners were flawless. Sorceress or not, his guest was still a lady.

"I know of no British. Where are your people from?" the woman demanded.

"Our isles reside north of the..." Norrington racked his brain. What was France called in Roman times? Would that be an old enough name for her to understand? Ah, yes. "... the Gauls."

"Ah... the Dagdha's people. Not as sensible nor as skilled as my own, but how could you be? Athena had no hand in your making. But every collection must start somewhere." The sorceress flashed Norrington a resigned smile. Norrington did not move.

"Your name, Miss."

"I am Circe, though that is far from relevant. You will sail to a small island immediately." Circe, her hands behind her back, walked along the rail. "Mule, mule, mule," she said, passing by three marines. "Dog, Rat, Pig," she continued, passing Murtogg, Clark, and Harfeyen. "And what to make of you? You're nearly a full quarter fox-spirit, but your personality is that of a raptor." Circe paused in front of Norrington.

"You are mistaken, Miss Circe. I am no more kitsune than Mr. Murtogg. And I am afraid we will not serve to begin your 'collection.' Neither we nor those we protect can afford us to be thusly distracted," Norrington said, hoping that he could talk his way out of the situation. He doubted it.

"I am not. You feel the dissonance now, as your demon blood shoves your human nature aside. It's trying to protect you, untrained whelp that you are," Circe said. "And you have no choice in the matter, Commodore. So do be genteel and turn this little boat around."

Norrington searched his memory for the classics he'd studied in school. What had Odysseus done? 

He had overcome Circe's powers with a god's help, and then proceeded to become her lover.

He had a kitsune. Would that suffice?

In a swirl of water, Shinarashi appeared before Norrington. She was in fox-form, and a silver collar encircled her neck. The fox hid behind Norrington. It was illogical, but comforting. As Circe spoke, Pet peeked from behind Norrington's legs.

"Is this your grand-mother, little fox? It is no matter. You have no hope. Set sail for an island immediately," she ordered. "Unless you'd rather I sail the boat myself and you would prefer to spend the trip on all fours."

In all the accounts of the Greek pantheon he'd read, all of their actions had either been simple or grand. They stole apples, or they destroyed an army. He could not recall a single instance of a god doing a complex and detailed task with magic. Also, if she did not even know of the British people, she probably lacked the skills to operate a British ship. Circe was bluffing.

"Well, since we're to spend the rest of our lives as beasts anyway, why not? Go ahead," Norrington said with a mocking smile. "If my choice is between raptor and fox, I chose fox."

"What are you saying?" Harfeyen gasped, interposing himself between Norrington and Circe. Norrington tried, but he could not suppress an exasperated sigh. "Perhaps, if we reconsider," he whispered to Norrington, "we could bargain with her. Reason with her."

"No," Norrington said. "Don't you remember your mythology? There is no reasoning with the gods." The Commodore looked past Harfeyen to Circe. "Isn't that correct? Since convincing you otherwise is impossible, my men and I will simply submit. But we will not work for our damnation. Sail the ship yourself."

"Ridiculous," Harfeyen sputtered. "All of you, do as the woman says." The seamen didn't move. Norrington didn't know whether to be gratified or furious. "This instant!" Seaman Davidson spoke up.

"We can't speak for an honored personage-" he pronounced it per-sohn-ahjee, "-as yourself, Admiral, but I'm not workin' t' help the enemy none. You wants t' turn us int' mules, you're gonna damn well sail th' ship - an' it's a ship, not a boat - yerself, Missy." He crossed his arms in defiance. Circe glowered, and turned the man into a frog. The Navy crew stood fast.

Circe pointed to Norrington. His heart seized up. With a cry, Norrington fell to his knees. He couldn't breathe and a tingling ache ran from his left shoulder to his fingertips.

"Sail or he dies," Circe demanded.

"Why?" Norrington gasped. "If you can man this vessel, then man her."

"But you can't, can you?" Groves asked, stepping forward. "You can no more sail this ship than I can fly. You need us to take you to your little island. And we'd rather die than do your bidding. You'll have to kill us all." The Lieutenant's hands did not even shake.

The tingling agony stopped. Norrington stood, tugging his uniform back into order.

"We've called your bluff," Groves continued. "By the rules of the game, you must withdraw."

"What game?" Circe spat.

"The only game that matters," Groves drawled. "Poque. It's the definitive card game; a game of strategy, cunning, and the higher the stakes... the greater the thrill." Circe was rewarded with Groves's most seductive smile, one that rivaled Jack Sparrow's for sheer carnal appeal. Norrington blinked. The Greek gods were not omniscient. It had been quite literally years since his misspent youth, but counting cards was more math and memory than anything. He should be able to manage still. Clever Theodore.

"Of. Course," Norrington said. "Poque. You should have reminded me sooner, Lieutenant Groves. It's common custom among gentlemen to solve disputes like ours with a game of Poque. I suggest this, Miss Circe. You don't want to kill all of us, for you'd have no collection. We don't want to be killed or be your collection. Rather than waste considerable time and effort, why don't we settle this over a game of Poque? If you win, we become your collection with nary a protest. On the other hand, should we win, you will leave all British ships alone. Do we have an accord?"

It was far from standard military strategy, but this was far from a standard military situation. Admiral Harfeyen looked as if he was going to explode.

"Don't you think that's a little complex, Commodore?" Groves asked. He sounded worried. "She is just back from Makai. She couldn't possibly be expected to understand even the basics of Poque."

"I can understand anything you humans can," Circe said, her pride miffed. "I am a goddess. Very well then, we will play this Poque. Gather what equipment you need."

Ten minutes later, a card table and five chairs had been set up on the quarter deck. Norrington sat at the head of the table, Groves at side. Circe sat across from Norrington. The Commodore shuffled a French deck of cards.

"Poque is fairly simple on the surface. We are all dealt a set amount of cards, and those cards are ranked in value. Whoever has the highest-ranking hand wins," Norrington said.

"Except," Groves said with an air of patience, "on the fourth Thursday of every other month. Then the lowest hand wins. Also, on the second Tuesday of every month, the rankings are reversed - a full house will suddenly be less than a mix-matched hand with a high-ranking card."

That wasn’t at all what Norrington had had in mind when Groves had suggested Poque. However, Groves had already begun and it was too late to change tack now.

"However, since today is Friday, disregard all of that," Groves continued.

Norrington dealt each person one card, face down.

Groves put his hand over Circe’s to stop her from picking up her card. "Since it is Friday, we're playing Blind Poque. You can only play that on a Friday. If you play it on any other day, you're breaking the rules and none of the bets count. If you're not playing on a Friday but you want to use the blind format, then you just stipulate that you can look at the face-down cards. On any day but Friday, you can look at the face-down cards. But since it is Friday, you can't."

Norrington silently dealt two more face-down cards.

"If you want more cards, then you have to ask us to hit you. We will, and then you'll get a card. These extra cards may or may not help you, and you have to bet accordingly.”

"But how do I know whether they help or not?" Circe asked.

"That's why it's called Blind Poque!" Groves exclaimed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and he wasn’t spitballing all of this on the spot. "You don't know! When he deals you your face-up cards, unless you decide to not draw any more, on which case you say, "stay," pay attention to whether they're upside-down or not. If they are upside-down, or ill-dignified, as we say, than they're worth half what they are normally. Keep in mind that what's ill-dignified to you is right-side-up to the dealer. So really, its the right-side-up cards are worth half their points, because they're actually ill-dignified.”

Circe was starting to look dazed.

"Hit me, Commodore." Norrington reached over and belted Groves, sending his head snapping to the right. Norrington then dealt the man a card, slapped himself, and gave himself a card. 

"Why do you play this game?" Circe demanded, utterly out of her depth and rather sulky about it.

"Fun, of course," both men chorused. 

"It's the height of civilized entertainment. Only the dreariest of scum don't think so," Norrington said briskly.

Pet ran for the stairs, rushing down them and out of Harfeyen's sight. The Commodore had been quite specific: she was not to change form in front of Harfeyen.

"Well, this is the most ridiculous game I've ever seen," Circe said primly. "And as a goddess, I am above this sort of thing. No whimpering batch of Celtic barbarians is worth this much trouble. I'm going back to Greece, where the games make sense."

And with a petulant swirl of seawater, Circe disappeared. Seaman Davidson returned to his natural form.

Groves sagged forward in relief, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. He let out a long breath.

"You are brilliant," Norrington said, the corners of his mouth curling. “Though I must express some concern for how talented a liar you are.” Many of the seamen dropped to their knees, offering prayers of thanksgiving. The rest cheered an "amen" to Norrington's words.

Harfeyen began screaming, his eyes wide and wild. His face was purple. Clark's face, on the other hand, was as white as the clouds above.

"That is the stupidest, most foolhardy, asinine plot I've seen from you yet! Poque! And not even true Poque, but some conflagranting mockery!" Harfeyen had meant to say "confounding," but in his rage did not speak clearly. "You are a scoundrel, a black mark on the fleet. You have no sense of decorum, no sense of dignity. You are a rapscallion, and I intend to instill discipline in you! Clark, take this man in hand!"

Norrington regarded Harfeyen with cool green eyes. The only sign of his trepidation was the clenching of his fists.

"What I have is a conscience and a cool head."

Clark grabbed his counterpart by the arm and drew him to his feet. Norrington did not resist. He accepted the consequences of his actions. The crew grumbled, but as Norrington did not resist, neither did they. Shinarashi appeared at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were wide with concern and fear. Norrington had forbade her to use magic in his behalf during these beatings, and she followed Norrington's commands as if he were her lord. But there was also the fact that another beating could cause permanent damage. Torn, she clenched her war fan in a death-grip.

Groves shook his head at the Doctor, his stomach a lump of lead. They needed evidence, and the only way to get that evidence was to give Harfeyen enough rope to hang himself.

Norrington's shirt was removed, and he was tied to the rigging. The first blow drew blood, reopening almost-healed wounds. The crew swore violently. Murtogg, however, merely looked surprised. Then he suddenly turned away as if he could not bear to watch. Groves wondered what it was Murtogg saw. Was Shinarashi merely casting an illusion of a beating, against Norrington's orders?

The Commodore did not collapse during this beating, which was unlikely. He slowly drew on his uniform, and disappeared into his office. Shinarashi followed at Norrington's gestured command. Murtogg mustered up his courage and ducked into the office uninvited. Groves organized the crew to continue on their way.

"What exactly do you think you were doing?" Norrington demanded as soon as the door closed. "I expressly forbade you to cast illusions, and you deliberately disobeyed me!"

"She didn't," Murtogg interrupted, stammering on the “i”. "Sir. Commodore. Shinarashi's illusions don't have a fuzzy outline. That one had a green one." Norrington glared at the marine who so impertinently had interceded... but as said man did have relevant information at his disposal, the Commodore did not reprimand him. "I-- I think it came from you, sir."

"Explain."

"Well, sir, I, er, that is to say--" Murtogg stopped and took a deep breath. "During battle, Commodore, as of late, you've had a green tinge to you. I thought it was one of Shinarashi's spells at first, but she has to drain people or the ocean for her magics, and this one didn't seem to have a ley line -- er, a visible energy source -- outside of yourself. This time, it was a full aura. I think _you_ cast the illusion."

"During all battles?" Norrington asked, his anger suddenly replaced with something that may have been dread.

"Just magical ones, sir," Murtogg said.

The appearance of the green tinge matched the dissonance perfectly. A snatched bit of lore from an old school textbook floated haphazardly across his consciousness, leaving havoc in its wake.

"Pet, are kitsune and werewolves related?"

"Distant cousins, Norrington-sama. Like a wolf and a lap-dog."

There were, Norrington remembered, three ways that a werewolf was made: to be bitten by a shifted werewolf, to become a werewolf as the natural evolution of one's soul, and to take on the characteristics from a close werewolf companion. If the kitsune and werewolf were cousins... and he was displaying undeniably supernatural characteristics... He'd drawn on Shinarashi's demonic power before. Was it such a leap to believe he could use that power as a-- as a sort of starter, like sourdough? To engender it within himself, even if unawares? 

_"You're nearly a full quarter fox demon... You feel the dissonance now, as your demon blood shoves your human nature aside. It's trying to protect you.."_

Circe was a goddess. She had seen the spirit blood in his veins. And the entire crew had seen evidence of that blood as he - for there was no other explanation - had cast an illusion of a beating to escape a real one.

Norrington's hands tingled, and his belly felt like it had turned into reef tackle. He lowered himself onto the edge of his desk.

"Dismissed," Norrington said, ashen. Slowly, reluctantly, Shinarashi obeyed. Murtogg followed. 

Could it be that he was no longer... human?


	6. Sakakaze

Divination has long been part and parcel of magecraft. Study any form of magic, human or god-given, and there will be a hefty section on foresight. Especially strong in Shinto magic is the omen, the event that serves warning that what you have sown you are about to reap. During her life before the Santaka curse that had bound her, Hito Shinarashi had sown much sorrow. She had murdered many without regret; and each murder was a heavy burden on her soul. Though she had washed away some of those burdens by her healing, her spirit was still black with the stink of death.

Thus it was that when Shinarashi saw a black cat feasting upon a fox's carcass - that is to say, an English omen of ill fortune benefiting from the death of her own personal omen of good fortune - she knew that the day would bring a catastrophe. Indeed, the bad luck leading up to the day was as much an omen as a consequence.

Upon his return to Fort Charles after the incident with Circe, Norrington had not left it. Two days had passed, and now a cat had consumed a fox that shouldn’t have been in Port Royal in the first place.

* * *

"I think that we have finally succeeded in breaking the good Commodore's spirit." The Admiral sipped his morning tea as Clark sat on the other side of the heavy oak desk. "He is faltering, in any case. Soon he will be out of our way. Then Fort Charles will be yours - a few months of spoiling the hands and Norrington's precious machine will be destroyed."

"I think that I will keep Norrington's efficient and bold crew intact,” Clark countered. “Protection fees are higher and more regularly paid than bribes, and Norrington watching his darling be perverted will be quite satisfying."

Harfeyen nodded slowly.

"I had not considered that angle... a superb idea. Though I must say that your enjoyment of this task is disturbing."

Clark scoffed. "As if you don't enjoy seeing that self-righteous hypocrite get a touch of what he’s got coming to him. After all the drinking, whoring, and theft we did together, he reports me for running a little boxing match for profit. And all that business of refusing wine at dinner. I know for a fact he can polish off an entire bottle of rum and not even swagger. I've seen him drink pirates under the table and bed a whore – of any stripe, I would bet a week’s pay he’s fucking that Frenchman -- right afterwards."

 _No matter how much money some have, they will always be common,_ Harfeyen mused. He raised an eyebrow. "I wonder what caused the change, not that it matters." The man's voice was dispassionate.

"No one knows.” Clark’s eyes were narrowed slits. “He was a complete bastard for years, and then… There was a raid at Virginia colony while we were docked for resupply. Captain Gloucester ordered the crew to help the army repel the savages, and dear James and I were separated. He took an axe to the arm defending some scullery wench that hid behind him. After he two days in the infirmary, this charade began." Clark spat. Harfeyen glared at the offending liquid.

"If you insist on indulging yourself in those common gestures, please see that they do not land on my desk," Harfeyen said with no little disdain.

"He's got everyone fooled," the Clark continued, wiping up the offending spittle. "It infuriates me; _I_ know who he _really_ is. And he has the gall to play the superior to me!"

"Though your commission predates his by twelve years, he was a Commodore one month before you were. He is, technically, your superior," Harfeyen said coolly. "But I do fathom your meaning. Your monologue, however, does not answer my question. Even if his moral code is just an act for career advancement, how did he go from rapscallion to being career-devoted?"

"Perhaps the Chinese doctor aboard ship convinced him. He certainly seems quite taken with them." 

"Yes, the mysterious Miss Hito. His reliance on her when dealing with the monsters is telling. If she is a mere castaway as he says, then what good is she against monsters? And why would she know so much about them? Port Royal is full of riddles, William. I want you to unravel them when the Fort is yours."

"A woman has no place playing surgeon!" Clark protested. "I will send her packing the day I take over."

"You'll do as I tell you," Harfeyen purred, "or I will see you hang. Or destitute. It's I who brings you your gold, after all." Harfeyen took another sip of his tea. "Grown and hardened seamen obey her without question, and her medical knowledge is a century ahead of ours. Then there is the chimera to consider, how well she dispatched it with only a wooden blade. Miss Hito is clever and hiding something. I must know what it is - in good time, of course."

Clark again said nothing. He had not risen to his current position by biting the hand that fed him.

Harfeyen smiled suddenly, the jolly mask back in place.

"But think of the challenge, what! To have the joy of the hunt again, eh?"

* * *

Benjamin Murtogg had not slept. He had dozed fitfully for an hour or so, but true sleep had eluded him. Instead of peace, visions of terror had danced in his mind in the dark of the night.

So now he stood on the battlement next to the flag pole, staring sightlessly into the golden dawn. This had been his post for the last hour. As the Bard would have said, something was rotten in the state of Jamaica. And, like all decay, it was spreading.

Or rather, was going to spread.

Ever since Clark's arrival and every time he'd entered the man's presence, he had the feeling that he had something awful writhing in his belly. It was the same feeling he had when he passed cemeteries, when he had seen Elizabeth's medallion those two years ago - was it two years already? - and when he had encountered Barbossa's men. It was the feeling of something terrible being born: a premonition, a warning, and a mark of death.

Murtogg shivered in the warm morning air. He supposed he should tell Shinarashi, but she already knew Clark was trouble. It was pointless to worry her over old news.

At the thought of Shinarashi, his stomach lurched oddly.

Another premonition. Since New Year's Day he'd been having them regularly whenever the thought of or was near to Shinarashi; his stomach lurched, his heart raced, and whenever she laughed his chest always felt three sizes too small.

Murtogg bowed his head, ignoring the beauty of the sun's rebirth and the seagulls' arching flight. That intense a premonition had to mean a catastrophe was in the not-so-distant future for Shinarashi. The thought scared him more than a dozen pirates.

Benjamin wasn't a church-going man. He didn't think the path to God lay with the Church of England or the Pope, but he did believe in Him. And though he did not speak to God regularly, he spoke to him often. This seemed an appropriate time, even though what he would say would be blasphemy.

"Holy Father, please forgive me for what I am about to say. I know, as your Word and Shinarashi tell me, that you are aren't fond of supernatural creatures who aren't yours. I know that Shinarashi belongs to Inari, if she belongs to anyone but the Commodore. But I know that above all, you are a just God, and you don't punish people for what they can't help. Shinarashi can't not serve Inari, she is incapable of serving you. I can't believe you would hold that against her.

"If I am wrong, then I am sorry.

"I also know that you know all, so you must know what Shinarashi's life has been like. Decades of murder and centuries of abuse... but she is happy now, Lord. And she deserves that happiness, both to make up for whatever it was that made her turn to slaughter, and for what the Santaka people did. Please, dear God, don't take that joy away from her. Whatever it is that is coming, please, in Your mercy, divert it.

"Amen."

Murtogg opened his eyes and raised his head, for the first time seeing the electrum clouds and tourmaline waves. He leaned on his elbows on the wall, his brow knotted with worry. If Barbossa and his men had only produced a faint nausea, what sort of horror would produce what he felt near Shinarashi?

* * *

When Midshipman Potter met Shinarashi several blocks from Fort Charles, she knew that what the omen portended had come to pass. Potter's face was that of a funeral mourner.

"The Commodore wants to see you, Captain Gillette, and First Lieutenant Groves," he said, "in his office. He looks like death warmed over, ma'am."

"Death is always warmed over," Shinarashi said softly. She smiled wanly. "He's very vitriolic."

It was gallows' humor acknowledged with a rictus smile. Midshipman Potter said nothing else as they walked to the Fort, and the Doctor did not press him.

Fifteen fretful minutes were spent in the courtyard awaiting Gillette and Groves. The shifts changed around her, a bustle of men who eyed her nervously. They could see her fear, which compounded their own.

At last the two men arrived, both escorted by midshipmen. Shinarashi felt sick - this was worse than she had thought. No one said anything as they crossed the Fort.

Gillette, the ranking officer, knocked on Norrington's door. Norrington bade them enter in a tone of voice Shinarashi had never heard before. Apparently Gillette and Groves knew what the voice meant, for they shared a look of dread on already-haggard faces.

The Captain opened the door and led the way. Shinarashi closed the door behind her. All three observed Norrington in silence. He was clean shaven and bewigged. One could not tell he hadn’t left the Fort for days.

"Sit," Norrington ordered in that same tone, as if he had somehow detached his heart from his brain. "I have, as you no doubt know, given this matter my undivided consideration. I have in no way come to this conclusion lightly, I will have you all know. But my decision is final."

Shinarashi gripped her fan. Gillette twisted his hat into a fair imitation of a spindle. Groves sat motionless, for once without trace of humor or joy.

"Circe and other events have brought to my attention that being a demon is contagious. And it has spread to me." Norrington paused, took a breath, and continued. "I have sacrificed much to the Service, as have we all. But I will not sacrifice my soul. Nor will I force my crew to do so, as there is a possibility that kitsune magic will spread to them as well.

"Therefore, Miss Hito, as of today you ware no longer the chief surgeon. You are a civilian. Mr. Murtogg will take your post, and will do the best he can. If the crew chooses to risk losing their humanity by associating with you, they may do so. But I will not force them."

Silence was heavy in the room, a destructive force all its own. No one could fathom what to say, even how to begin-

But the horror was not complete.

"Nor are you welcome in my home. Find what other arrangements you may. Farewell, Miss Hito."

"That's not how-- Whenever you've free time, you go to the water. Even in the socialites' parlors, you're looking always to the sea. You-- you wish for war to keep you here, in a ship, knowing it would be France, knowing that that would mean for Andrew-kun. You fight with trickery and deceit and by targeting your prey like a hunter, not broad nets like fishermen and the regimented lines of the soldier. This is happening to you and only to you because you were almost a demon already."

Norrington looked up sharply. It was the exactly wrong thing to say. "Get out."

Shinarashi's stood and departed, obeying her orders, walking with jerky tread. Gillette and Groves watched her leave, mouths open and minds still. Gillette did not even wrench his hat.

Shinarashi passed the Fort's gates, either unwilling or unable to answer the men's whispered questions. Only when she had rounded the corner did the full weight of her exile strike her. Her discipline failed her, her magic could not save her, there was nothing to do but run to the stone ledge and lose herself in the only home she had left.

* * *

Murtogg watched Shinarashi leave, looked upon her dead eyes and shattered nerves, and knew that his prayer had not been answered. He dropped his musket and ran after her. He was unheeding of Clarence's calls and Peter's shouts. All that mattered was the black-and-white form in front of him.

Benjamin followed the kitsune to the tempest-tossed rocks, and without thought that he could not swim, jumped in after her.

* * *

“What do you think you’re doing?” Gillette demanded, standing up so hard he knocked his chair back onto its hind legs. It clattered to the floor.

“Don’t take that tone with me, sir,” Norrington snapped.

“I’ll take any tone with you I like--”

“Stand down, that is an order--”

“I will not stand down, James! Now, you listen to me!” Gillette shouted over the top of him. “You’ve never called Shinarashi ‘Doctor Hito,’ not once, no matter how many times I’ve used her title. Half the time you call her ‘Pet’ even when she’s human. You put her in the servants’ wing of _your house_ even though that as good as made her look like your whore, and you knew, she told me you knew, and you did it anyway, because _you_ wanted her there. Shinarashi didn’t seem to mind, so I didn’t say anything, but she is not your fox. She’s a person. She’s a person who has saved your life and a person who has saved my ship, and she deserves better than this.”

“I have explained to you my reasons,” Norrington said, his voice tight and clipped and somehow rough all the same. Or perhaps Groves simply wished it was.

“I don’t care about your reasons! You’re going down there and you’re fixing this--”

“You don’t give me orders, Captain, and if you can’t remember that I will have you replaced.”

Gillette stared mutely for a handful of breaths.

“ _Dieu te damne en enfer. Putain de te directement en enfer._ ” 

Gillette slammed the door behind him.

“Do you have anything to say, Lieutenant?” Norrington demanded.

“This is wrong,” Theodore said softly. “If you don’t know it now, you will. Hopefully before you get us all killed. Dismissed, sir?”

Norrington nodded. Groves saluted, and left the office.

The Captain's misshapen hat lay on the floor, looking for all the world like the unwashed fox that had been found on the floor of an inn.

* * *

Unlike the Kingdom of Rock above it, the Principality of Water was at peace. The waves lapped softly at the land, but that soothing whisper could not be heard below the surface. There was nothing of ill will in the sandy-bottomed water. There was nothing at all, in fact, but plankton, algae, and a few fish too small for men to bother.

Shinarashi dissolved herself in that serenity, abandoning physical form to become pure water. The ocean embraced its own, drowning the kitsune's anguish and suffocating her panic. When - if - she returned to the surface world those emotions would be resurrected, but for now the demon did not suffer. For a tiny eternity, Shinarashi was nothing but hydrogen and oxygen, with no concern but the ebb and flow of high tide. For that endless second, she forgot that she had moved on land.

That gentleness was shattered by the entry of a large citizen of Rock and Air. The Ocean creature recoiled from the foreign thing that thrashed and gasped and gurgled. It made odd sounds that desecrated the calm, sounds the water vaguely remembered.

"Shin--!" the thing gasped, then stilled. It sank slowly, an odd halo of brown drifting around its head. The thing was red, with white and gold and metal objects everywhere. The dead flesh of animals it wore on its fins, fins for walking instead of swimming. It looked so familiar, though it was no denizen of the Principality--

Benjamin!

Memory jolted the kitsune into solidity. Shinarashi grabbed hold of Murtogg and brought him to the surface, commanding the water to sweep them onto the nearest shore. Her amnesiac retreat had swept Murtogg far out into the bay; the nearest shore was the one opposite the Fort. It was a happenstance Shinarashi was grateful for.

Shinarashi laid Murtogg out on the sand, pressing her ear against his chest. His heartbeat was strong. The marine coughed and spat up water. Relieved beyond expressing, the kitsune pulled her friend inland. Shinarashi removed her outer kimono, using it for a cushion as she propped Murtogg up against a palm tree. Once she was certain Benjamin was out of immediate danger, the kitsune could no longer maintain an illusion of calm.

"What were you thinking?" She yelled, her voice shrill. "Have you lost your mind? Did you leave it at the practice yard? You can't swim and I can't drown in salt water, you know both- what did you- why- I've lost so much already, what in Inari's name could you possibly have gained- it's bad enough-" Sobs punctuated her words, then overpowered them. Murtogg pulled Shinarashi close, tucking her head under his chin.

"What happened?" he asked gently. "What did the Commodore say? What have you lost?"

But Shinarashi couldn't reply outside of a few futile gestures. She couldn't even order her thoughts enough to tell Murtogg magically. She sobbed brokenly into his chest, her arms thrown about his waist. Benjamin stroked her hair, plying her with no further questions. With a healer's instinct, he allowed her vent to her pain without restraint. Only when the sobs stilled did he again pose his query.

"He sent me away," Shinarashi whispered hoarsely. "I'm not the surgeon anymore, I can't even live at the house. I can stay in Port Royal, but... I've been exiled."

"Why?" Murtogg asked, shocked at the sudden turn Norrington's opinion had taken.

"He... he was starting to become a demon himself. He didn't want to be, and so he sent me away so I wouldn't be a... contamination." Her voice was bitter. "Though honor commands that I may not speak ill of my--” she reached for the word and landed on the closest approximation, “feudal lord... it is still... unfair." Shinarashi stopped, her fingers toying nervously with Murtogg's uniform buttons. "I told you that a kitsune cannot change, and that is true. A demon may not stop being a demon. But within those bounds, there is a certain amount of change that may take place. I have reached the limits of that change, and it is the Commodore that is to blame."

Murtogg said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"I was... a demon takes on some of the characteristics of the form it assumes. If the form is worn long enough, you forget... what you were. By the time the Commodore found me, I had forgotten that I was a kitsune. I was only a fox, though a clever one -- still just an animal. He was the first mortal human ever to show me kindness. He was... patient. Gentle. And slowly, so slowly, I began to remember that I was more than a beast. He didn't just save my life, he saved my sanity. And the person that I became from his care is not..." Shinarashi trailed off.

"A demon's thoughts are not a man's thoughts," she began again, paraphrasing a Scripture she had heard at the wedding. "We see things so differently. Mortal life is not sacred to most kitsune, and mortal mores have no hold on us. I... I do not think that way any more. I think like a human more than a demon, now. 

"So, if he has changed _me_ so much, I do not- I do not think it fair that he should so reject me for causing a little change in _him_ ," Shinarashi finished, rankled.

"It's the strain," Murtogg said softly. "Once Harfeyen backs off or gets killed, he'll come to his senses. He can't lash out at Harfeyen, and so you got the brunt of his... It'll be all right eventually."

"You think so?" Shinarashi said, disbelieving.

"The Universe repays us for what we've done. Harfeyen will get his comeuppance, and afterwards the victims of his... madness, I imagine... can heal the damage." 

Shinarashi laughed hollowly. She wished she had Benjamin's certainty.

"Shinarashi... I know that you do not like to speak of what you were before," Benjamin asked after a long silence, "but, if I may, why did you become the 'Storm of Death'?"

"Kitsune can be killed," Shinarashi said softly after a few moments' hesitation. "Humans came to... they felt my family was a danger to them. And so they murdered them all when I was very young. Well, by kitsune standards, anyway. I survived, and vowed to wreak such damage on the race that had done me such harm. For seven decades, I killed every human that I could find. Not the energy drain that my people are famous for, not leading men over the hills and stealing their souls... but calculated murder. Mortal life was only meat to be wasted."

Benjamin nodded slowly. It was not what he was expecting, but he accepted it all the same. It was certainly not who she was now.

* * *

Norrington stood at his window, staring out across the bay. Two small points were visible on the opposite shore. Shinarashi was one, he knew, and Benjamin Murtogg was the other. Murtogg, who had immediately followed Shinarashi into the water knowing full well he could not swim.

Part of the Commodore wanted to call the man a fool.

Another wished for his loyalty.

And a third part whispered that is should have been him out there.

_I'm doing the right thing. I can't become a kitsune. I can't._

The Commodore raised his eyes to the horizon, the endless curve where sea met sky. Birds and fish frolicked together at that forever-intangible line, or so the stories went. Normally, the sight had pulled on Norrington's very soul. Now, however, it was a numbing reminder that creatures of the ocean and creatures of the air could never hope to coexist: the birds pulled the fish out of water, or else the fish drowned the birds.

Norrington refused to be drowned.

He wondered what price his crew would pay for that refusal, when they faced the next Makai without Shinarashi's expertise.

_And what will I do when that happens, when one timid magic seer isn't enough to save us? What will I do when there is nothing that can be done?_

* * *

"He sent the witch away."

For a moment, Jondrette Harfeyen thought his hearing had failed him.

"He sent her away from the ship, and even from his house. She packed her things this morning, and off she went."

No, his hearing was fine. That left only his second's sanity in doubt.

"Are you certain?" the Admiral asked softly.

"Absolutely certain. That Murtogg man is ship's surgeon in her place. All her reforms are still in place, but the woman herself has most definitely been exiled," Clark said with savage joy. "I'd say dear James is fraying at the edges a bit."

"Indeed," Harfeyen said happily, sipping his tea. "And it's about time we met with some progress. Now... now we need to drive the point home."

* * *

_June 26, 1723_  
"It's amazing what you can do with a little ingenuity, isn't it?" Murtogg remarked, examining Shinarashi's new home with no little satisfaction. Though not skilled laborers, under the direction of the _Dauntless_ 's carpenter and his staff, the marines of Murtogg's division had succeeded in building a suitable dwelling for the outcasted doctor. Though it had not the graceful soar of the elfin homes the kitsune had sketched for them, it had every inch the stability. The one-room house was built around the trunk of a tree that would have made any mast-wright proud, a rope ladder served as front steps. The door was made of woven branches, as were the shutters. The house itself was built a safe fifteen feet from the ground, thanks to the carpenter's pulleys and Shinarashi's strength.

Shinarashi patted the wood floor, which had been hewn from a tree just like the one that provided foundation and spine for her den.

"It is truly a marvel. Though if I had known what you had intended when you asked what homes Makai made, I would have picked something more simple."

"If you're not going to live in the town -- and Father Driscoll makes that quite impossible -- then you must take some precautions." Murtogg sat cross-legged one of the cushions surrounding the low table Shinarashi had been allowed to keep. "If a steel blade can kill a kitsune, I imagine an animal’s claws would suffice." Shinarashi smiled with humor, but did not laugh.

"What are you going to do for money?" the marine asked softly, helping himself to some of the tea he had brought and brewed.

"Practice my witchcraft on the ignorant savages foolish enough to dare," Shinarashi said dryly, echoing Dr. Wellington's parting words. "Though I will need very little -- cloth, tea, and soap are all I will need to purchase. The forest will provide me with the rest. It is good there are no winters here."

"I don't think you'll need it that long. Clark is far overdue for whatever it is that will happen to him," Murtogg said offhandedly, sipping his tea. "The two are peas in a bloody pod. What it is that brings Clark down will cause Harfeyen to fall as well."

"If you say so, Benjamin," Shinarashi sighed. "It has been my experience that the innocent and the guilty suffer equally, sometimes the guilty less so."

"You're not old enough to be cynical yet."

"I'm two hundred eighty-three years old, Benjamin. I think that is quite enough to have learned how the world works."

Murtogg didn't reply. It was pointless to argue with someone who was upset -- one only exacerbated the problem.

"How is the Commodore?" Shinarashi asked after a stretch of silence. She stared into her cup instead of meeting Murtogg's eyes.

"Judging from the complete lack of anything even remotely resembling humanity in his demeanor, not well," Murtogg replied. His voice was completely without his usual boyish lilt. "Lieutenant Groves and Captain Gillette are still on the outs with him. The Captain's in a right state; we're all treading very carefully lest he chuck one of us overboard to see if you can keelhaul without a rope."

"I did not think to cause such dissension," the demon murmured. "It's bad luck."

"You didn't cause it. The Commodore did by sending you away." The rebuke was not unkindly said, but it was still a rebuke. "We cause enough pain in this world without taking the actions of others upon ourselves. Lieutenant Groves is too free-spirited to hold a grudge for long, and Captain Gillette will come around eventually. He's too devoted to the Commodore to do otherwise. And if they don't, those are the Commodore's consequences to worry about."

"Benjamin..." The demon sighed. "The Commodore is my-- lord, maybe, is the closest English word. Master, perhaps, though that’s not quite accurate either. That he saved my sanity makes those ties even more binding. Those are the reasons why I gave him the suffix - _sama_. I can't just stop worrying for him." Benjamin swirled the tea in his cup.

"I know. But I don't like seeing you in the pain that worry causes."

"Pain is good. It's our bodies and our souls telling us to pay attention."

"Just because there are benefits to it doesn't make it good. Pain hurts."

Shinarashi laughed. "Yes. Yes, it does." She stilled and looked away. Tears slid down her cheeks to soak into the neck of her kimono. Murtogg moved around the table to pull his friend close. He smoothed her black hair, wishing he could smooth everything so easily.

* * *

Gillette sighed, looking at the sea chart in front of him. A chalk masterpiece was scrawled over the black lines marking landmasses and currents, and it was the masterpiece that concerned him. Green chalk lines marked the routes of those convoys that had made it safely to Port Royal. Red lines marked the routes of the convoys that had fallen to standard pirates. White lines marked the routes of those who had fallen to magical means. In blue were the routes of the ships who had been rescued by Fort Charles forces. For the past two hours, Gillette had been searching the tangle of paths for a pattern, some evidence of an orchestrating intelligence behind the attacks. Every time he thought he’d succeeded in finding one, there were always three or four lines that didn't suit the equation.

"So much for that plan," Gillette groused. He took a soft cloth and began wiping away the chalk. "No pattern, no mastermind. No way to predict what we'll face next or when that will be. Back to the drawing board, it appears."

A knock sounded at the door, and at Gillette's command a midshipman entered.

"Lieutenant Pettibone sends his respects, sir. The watch spotted smoke on the horizon. Shall we investigate?" 

"Immediately," Gillette ordered, pulling on his coat. “Rouse the Commodore.” The two sailors left the room apace, one veering toward the helm and the other towards the Lieutenant’s quarters. Harfeyen had taken Gillette’s quarters, relegating the senior officers to the wardroom and the lesser officers to seamen’s hammocks. 

Harfeyen had insisted he wanted to see how the controversial captain performed. Norrington couldn’t see it, but Gillette knew it was more of Harfeyen setting the Commodore up to disobey or fail so that he could be punished. Gillette knew that game. If Harfeyen thought he could use Gillette as an unwitting pawn in it, he was in for a rude surprise.

Gillette took the steps to the helm two at a time. "Report, Lieutenant Pettibone." 

The lieutenant saluted before beginning. "A couple of minutes ago the crow's nest watch spotted smoke on the horizon, Captain, three points to the south. I looked through the glass and saw the smoke myself. There's no island within sight distance in that direction, sir. I believe it to be a ship in distress, possibly under attack."

"Excellent. Prepare to set sail," Gillette ordered. Pettibone shouted the appropriate commands. 

The _Dauntless_ came within view of the trouble in less than five minutes. The ship, a trading company vessel, was burning. The screams of the dying were clearly audible. Gillette extended his spyglass. There was something eating the crewmen alive. Gillette had no possible clue what it could be. It didn’t match anything in either the lessons or even Shinarashi’s stories. It couldn’t be less than nine feet tall and it was bright green. It had sharply pointed ears. 

Gillette passed the glass to Norrington when he arrived. “Marines, to the rail!” The Commodore ordered. “First squad, regular shot, second squad, silver.” The marines took aim and fired. The demon staggered, bleeding. The Navy men looked on tensely.

The demon straightened and bellowed. The musket balls flew from the Makai's flesh, falling to lay uselessly on the deck. With a leap, the green monster crossed the distance to the _Dauntless_. Fearsome fangs that curved from between its green lips.

"What mouse dares try to protect the other mice?" No words could describe that voice. It was deeper than a bass and more savage than a lion's roar. It was the type of voice that was felt instead of heard. 

"I do. I am Commodore Norrington of the King's Navy. You will cease and desist immediately." Even though Gillette was starting to his suspect his words were patently ridiculous, Norrington certainly sounded like he believed them.

"Or you'll do what, halfling? Feh." The demon spat. “I have no fear of tricksters.” Norrington struck first, a too-fast slice of his short sword that separated the demon's head from his neck.

The head grew back.

"Goodbye, mouse," the demon said. And with that, the creature picked Norrington up and threw him across the deck. The Commodore rolled down the cockpit stairs, unconscious. Every marine on the deck immediately opened fire. Again the demon staggered, and again he ejected the bullets from his flesh. This time, however, the ammunition returned to the hearts of those who fired it.

Gillette did not know what he faced. All he knew was that the men of the _Dauntless_ were utterly incapable of accomplishing anything but the martyrs' deaths suffered by the ten who had fired on it. They needed to buy time to escape.

It was time to see just how impressive the demon's regenerative powers were.

Behind his back, he pointed toward the bow. The Captain slowly stepped toward and to the left of the monster, so that the long nines were behind its back when it turned to face him. Gillette offered the same bow he had seen Shinarashi give Norrington.

"I offer my deepest apologies, oyakusama.” Gillette stumbled over the unfamiliar word Shinarashi had taught him meant “sir,” but kept on gamely. “We did not realize who you were, nor did we realize your powers were of such magnitude. I beg of you to let this insult pass by, that we should think you a common minion of a human mage," Gillette said with formality. The demon laughed. It was a terrible sound. Gillette refused to flinch at it.

Groves had crept along the deck and was loading one of the canons, slow and quiet.

"At last. A man worth eating," the demon purred.

“I humbly offer myself if it would assuage your anger, oh mighty one--”

Gillette dropped flat to the deck. Groves blew the demon to pieces.

The bloody chunks slid toward each other.

"Swab crews, sweep the carnage overboard!" Gillette ordered as he pushed himself up. "Crews, I want full sail! Topmen, look alive!" Though it choked him to utter them, the Captain shouted the final words of his command. "Full retreat!"

It was not an order that the crew was used to hearing. They discovered that they didn't like it much. Nevertheless, they obeyed. The company ship was left to its fate. Harfeyen – who had done nothing to garner the green monster’s attention – did not countermand the order.

When he regained consciousness, the Commodore was beaten for failing to defeat the monster. Gillette protested that as the commanding officer at the time the blame fell to him, but to no avail. Norrington refused the blessed relief of kitsune dissonance, bending his entire will to the task of staying human. Gillette couldn’t tell if his screams were of agony or triumph.

* * *

No one spoke to the Captain. The aide pretended he didn't exist, quietly sharpening his scalpels in the candlelight. Murtogg read Shinarashi's notes by that same candle, trying desperately to make his knowledge sufficient to the task of surgeon. He also pretended Gillette did not stand at the cockpit door watching his superior sleep face-down on the trunk-turned-bed.

Gillette was in turmoil.

Though Gillette took more after his father than his mother, he had inherited her temper. Once a wrong was done, he rarely forgave and never forgot. Repentance wasn't enough to stall Gillette's temper; only repayment would do.

Norrington had neither made repayment nor expressed repentance. It wasn’t even Gillette’s slight to forgive. Nevertheless, Gillette was finding it hard to maintain his anger, not as he watched the Commodore in laudanum-laden sleep. Even under the opiate's care, frown lines creased the dreaming man's mouth and forehead. 

_It's understandable, really,_ Gillette told himself on the one hand. _There are circumstances that need to be taken into account. There's the strain for one. His stubbornness is another -- look how much it took for Sparrow to pull the wool over his eyes._

 _It doesn't matter,_ Gillette argued with himself. _He had no right to take it out on Shinarashi. You can’t treat people like that._

He answered himself: _And you have always acted with complete control of yourself and your emotions? You have always seen everything clearly? You who refused to believe in undead pirates and talking foxes, you who mocked those who saw what you could not?_

Gillette looked away from the man he loved more than himself, whose interests he had put before his own countless times before.

Not that any of his internal debate was what really mattered. _This may kill him, and my last words of any significance were damning him to Hell._

Gillette approached the Commodore. He touched the man's shoulder. He couldn’t tell if Norrington was awake or not.

"You're doing the best you can even though that is-- absolutely terrible, really," the Captain said softly. "You'll come to your senses eventually."

* * *

"You've made up, then?"

Gillette didn't respond to the question at first. Instead he approached his second and stood next to him at the rail. The full moon reflected in the choppy water, a magnificent dream torn to pieces by the waves.

"Well?"

"I can't stay mad at him forever, Theodore. Besides, with Shinarashi gone, someone needs to care for him."

"Yes, she is gone. She's gone because he sent her away." Theodore leaned forward, pushing on the railing. "That's not gratitude and it's against all the rules of hospitality."

"I know. And he hasn't done a thing to mend it. But I'm forgiving him anyway." Gillette shrugged. "I just... chose not to be angry with him. I don't think he realized that he has other options."

Groves barked in laughter, standing up again.

"I suddenly have a new insight into how you feel about Mrs. Turner."

"No, you don't," Gillette said softly.

"Don't be stupid, Andrew," Groves snapped. "If you're trying to tell me you're pining for Shinarashi you must think I'm the greenest midshipman to come off the Portsmouth docks."

"That's not what I meant and you know it,” Gillette said back just as sharply.

"But it sounded like-" Groves started to say, and halted. Slowly, so slowly, he put the evidence together. Gillette's enigmatic behavior suddenly made sense: his devotion to Norrington, his disavowal of pleasurable company, his hostility towards Elizabeth, even his immunity to the sirens. Groves suddenly recalled Shinarashi's words when she had explained that immunity: "A... behavioral oddity... more common in Japan and Greece than in other areas." Weren't Japan and Greece notorious for their homosexual populations?

"I... could see you hang for this," Groves said slowly.

"No, you couldn't," Gillette said, realizing what he had let slip in that fractional inattention. He closed his eyes, bowing his head. "I don't act on it. Ever. No one knows but Shinarashi."

"Do you... me? You've seen me bare enough times!" Groves whispered sharply. He colored deeply, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Do you feel lust every time you see a woman's heaving bosoms?" Gillette whispered back, wishing he’d had the prescience to drag this conversation somewhere else.

Groves shook his head.

"Well, there you go. This doesn't have to change anything, not if you keep calm," Gillette said sternly. It was the voice of a Captain. "You're a friend. Just like Shinarashi is to you."

Groves opened and closed his mouth twice. Then he walked away.

Gillette looked out over the water. “Brilliant.”

* * *

_June 28, 1723_  
The smell of green tea was out of place in the forest. The smell of decay and lush plant life seemed too untamed for anything as civilized as an Oriental drink to exist in it. Also to consider was the intolerable climate of the Caribbean summer: between the heat and the humidity, even the staunchest Englishman abandoned hot tea in favor of iced beverages.

However, in the gray predawn coolness that unbearable heat was no obstacle. Two allies shared the soothing beverage and the balm of common company in relative comfort. Relative because Gillette wasn't used to sitting upon the floor for long periods of time. Not even shifting position had kept his feet from falling asleep.

"From your description, I would guess you faced the demon who used to haunt Agi Bridge," Shinarashi said as the Captain flexed his toes in an attempt to stop the tingling. She picked up one of the fruits she’d cut up for breakfast. It was light green and shaped like a star. She took a bite and after chewing thoughtfully, continued. "I don't think I could have come up with a better plan than yours, Andrew-kun. Full shape-shifters are among the strongest of all Makai. On an ascending scale of one to ten, they would rank at nine. Kitsune in general would rank at five, though one in their tenth century would be nearly as powerful. I may have been able to slay this demon if luck was with me, but chances are much better that I would have died in the attempt."

Andrew tossed his mango pit into the trash receptacle in disgust.

"Then what do we do if we face him again?"

"If you meet him on sea, do as you did. Shatter him and cast him into the sea. The salt water will slow his regeneration enough for you to escape. If you meet on land... pray. And hope that your God protects you."

"Is there any way to kill them?" Gillette asked, sipping his tea. He half-wished that Shinarashi had had black tea; this green variety was a bit acidic for his tastes.

"There are spells," Shinarashi said after another bite of fruit. "Like anything, shape-shifters have vulnerabilities that may be exploited. And there are Makai more powerful. However, as we have no mage and the more powerful Makai are generally even less inclined to kindness toward a human... I would not say that either avenue is open to us. A messenger of a god could dispatch most any Makai, though it seems your deity has little desire to interfere on your behalf." Shinarashi smiled wanly. “It is not atypical of the Catholic God.”

"I'm far too lapsed to be considered Catholic anymore." Though the knowledge that having Shinarashi with them wouldn't have changed the battle's outcome soothed his frustration, it was frightening to know that those things beyond Shinarashi's abilities to dispatch had begun crossing the Barrier.

"All religions that trace their ancestry to the Catholic Church worship the Catholic God, though He regards them as apostates and sends them to Hell. Humans do not make Gods, they merely worship or ignore those Gods already living. The only religions that are certifiably 'new' are those that are founded by a child-God that has come of age and revealed himself to human followers. All Gods and Goddesses dwell in Reikai, each in His or Her own kingdom. It is in that kingdom that the souls of the God's worshippers are kept."

"You're joking," Gillette said flatly.

"No, I'm not," Shinarashi said. Her ears flicked back in surprise at the vehemence of her companion's rejection. "Why is it that the concept disturbs you so?"

Gillette glared for a few seconds, then dropped his eyes to the table.

"It doesn't matter," he finally said.

"We choose which God to worship," Shinarashi said after a long pause, guessing at why her friend might be so antagonized by the idea. "If one does not suit you, another may. Or you can choose to serve no God at all. Though Death would complain over such a choice, it is a valid option." Gillette blinked rapidly in confusion. 

"Lord Death and his servants are the beings responsible for collecting the souls of the dying and seeing to it those souls are sent to the appropriate jurisdiction in Reikai," Shinarashi explained. "Those who do not make a choice as to what God to serve are very difficult to place." Gillette slammed his teacup on the table, suddenly furious at the turn his life had taken. Was it so long ago -- only two years? -- that he had been a simple lieutenant with no concerns but chasing pirates and keeping his deadly secret to himself? 

And now! Now he lived in a fairy tale; chasing legendary monsters, consorting with demons, and talking of Gods with a straight face. Life was no longer black and white, it wasn't even shades of grey. It was vibrant and terrifying color that drowned out reason; everything was too real and yet not real at all.

"'Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage,'" Gillette quoted with no little bitterness. He didn't even have Groves to rely on anymore. The Lieutenant had avoided him as studiously as he'd avoided the Commodore, not even meeting his eyes when physical avoidance was impossible. 

Shinarashi cradled her teacup more tightly. She couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make the situation worse.

* * *

"Well, it seems now that we broke that first layer of ice, things are proceeding better than we had planned." Harfeyen took a bite of the eggs before him. He and Clark dined in what had become Harfeyen's office, a room with a stout oak door that made eavesdropping quite impossible. Clark had already finished his meal, having devoured it while relating what appeared to be the demise of the friendship between Norrington's seconds. "With the two men separated thusly," the Admiral continued, "it is highly unlikely that they will be able to in any way bolster the good Commodore."

"Which means dear James should come flying apart at the seams any time now," Clark finished with gloating joy. Dark dreams filled the man's mind, fueled by the writhing abyss in his heart and reflected in the emptiness of his eyes. Harfeyen flinched from that emptiness. His appetite faded. That hollow blackness had grown several hundredfold since Christmas. 

Harfeyen remembered a time when his body's pleasures were all that had motivated Clark; when wine, women, and song had been his gods. Slowly, so slowly that Harfeyen hadn't noticed enough to feel alarmed, that bacchanal drive had become something else. Instead of glorying in life, Clark now gloried in the kill. Corruption had transformed itself into evil. And for the first time, Harfeyen feared his second. What had happened to the man?

And what had happened to him? When Harfeyen thought of the undeniably magical creatures he faced he felt no shock, no awe. Not even surprise ruffled the smooth surface of his mind. It was as if he'd always lived with magic, so calmly had he adapted. Something, a voice so faint as to be a whisper, told him that this was abnormal. That so-soft mental voice told him that something very significant had changed and that he should be trying to stop the changes.

Was it his conscience, perhaps? Poppycock. He'd ignored his conscience for too long for it to be piping up now. He'd ignored it since that first day he'd been penniless on the street, useless navy vouchers in his hand and a warm meal on the other side of the window. He had been a Captain then -- a Captain without a ship, sent to land because it was peacetime and the Navy didn't need him. His honor had been useless, as had his faith in the Crown. So he'd abandoned both. It was unlikely he'd found them again at this late date.

No use brooding on it, Harfeyen suddenly told himself. He cast the depressing thoughts aside, his appetite returning. It was every man for himself in this world. If you were soft enough to believe otherwise, you deserved what you got.

* * *

Maple, Norrington reflected, was a truly beautiful wood. Gold and ivory swirled together in intricate patterns that no man could have invented. The brass highlights of his desk highlighted that loveliness, as did the rich amber of the imported, stamped, Crown-sanctioned rum that sat upon it. The bottle was a stranger to this house; neither it nor its ilk had been allowed in Norrington's dwelling since the man's fourth year of service in the Navy.

It had been a hard-won sobriety. Worse than the headaches and the sweating had been the preoccupation, the constant desire for the burn of alcohol in his belly. It had consumed him during those first few years; and the only way to drive the craving for drink away had been to bury himself in his work. To make matters worse, drink was everywhere. Sailors and officers alike were issued their own daily allotment of the vicious brew. Bootleggers sold secretly-crafted hooch for exorbitant fees. The men kept bottles of the stuff purchased on shore among their meager belongings. 

There was no way to avoid drink on ship, no way at all.

And even if you did give up your ration, throw out your bottles, and bring the bootleggers before the Master at Arms, there were always your colleagues to deal with. Colleagues that didn't understand what you were trying to do. Men who thought it a service to urge you to relax with a drink, or who thought it funny to mock you for refusing. Men that would pour alcohol in your water if you didn't keep a close eye upon them, men that would rave to you about the joys of the vice you had given up.

Norrington still wasn't certain where he found the self-control to last those first four years. After the fourth year, the constant ache for alcohol had dulled to something manageable. The advantages that sobriety had won had helped: a perfect record, a sterling reputation, and a promotion. How could he dare risk losing all of that for one drink? Though he knew not how he knew, Norrington understood that even one glass could erase all his efforts. 

Norrington stared at the bottle.

 _You won't find any answers in there._

But it wasn't answers he was after. It was peace. All he wanted were a few moments free from the burning agony in his back and the hollowness in his heart. Sending Shinarashi away had been like tearing out a rib with his bare hands. The loss of Groves had been a wound of even greater magnitude. While Gillette had returned, one Frenchman was not enough to counteract the pain. Though Andrew was more devoted than any lover, the fact remained that James was not one step closer to ridding himself of the seemingly mad Harfeyen or his sadistic lapdog. Nor was he any closer to ridding himself of his tainting demon blood. The chains that so tortured the Commodore were chains of his own making, chains that seemed to have no locks.

_There's no way out that won't destroy me. It's mutiny against Harfeyen, abandoning my humanity, or this._

Norrington leaned forward, resting his forehead on the desk. The Commodore's listless hands hung between his knees. He felt like someone had gutted him in the night and then stitched the wound closed with invisible thread. 

_And so I again forsake Gillette's trust in me? Do I honestly think he'll forgive me again, that any of them will?_

No, he didn't imagine that those who loved him would forgive him.

Nor did he care. He knew that he should care, that in any other circumstance he would care, but now there just wasn't enough energy left to muster so strong an emotion.

 _I'm dead already, what's the harm in speeding it up a bit?_

Norrington sat up slowly, moving like an old man for all he was in his thirties. He pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured himself a glass. Norrington raised it to the light, admiring the way the glass and the liquid within it caught the light.

The Commodore lowered the glass to his lips.


	7. Uranagi

It is – or rather, had been once and would be again – a proven medical fact that stress and pain dull mental acuity. The more constant the pain and the more recurrent the stress, the more one's intellectual faculties are affected. Norrington had been in constant pain since that first beating and he had had little surcease. Harfeyen and Clark's constant presence, the dread of further punishment, and the moral dilemmas of his situation had provided further stress. 

Under normal circumstances, Norrington would have remembered that alcohol's primary indication was the destruction of self-control. If he had been thinking with his usual clarity, the Commodore would never have imbibed of rum while trying to control something as volatile as kitsune magic.

Of course, it must be noted that if his mind had been in top condition, the Commodore wouldn't have imbibed at all.

When the midshipman cried at the door that fires had been spotted by the watch, Norrington rose from his desk and ran to the door with steady tread. Though his breath smelled of alcohol, his eyes were clearer than they had been in months. His body language was different, too. His movements were no longer regimental, but fluid. 

Harfeyen noticed the change, smelled the rum's fumes. Clark smirked.

"Like I said: not even a swagger," he murmured to his superior.

"Set sail," Norrington ordered. Groves couldn't keep the surprised look off his face. The Commodore's voice wasn't his usual clipped, aristocratic tenor. Instead, a rough baritone purr came from his throat. "Get to it, men! What are you gawking at?"

The officers jumped to work.

"Commodore," Harfeyen demanded. "Have you been drinking?"

Norrington did not reply, observing the ordered chaos that was a ship readying to sail.

"I asked you a question, man!" Harfeyen snapped. Norrington turned to regard his nemesis. His eyes were a brilliant granny-apple green.

"So you did. And I thought the answer too obvious to merit response." A shout from the forecastle signaled the _Intrepid_ 's departure. Gillette's _Dauntless_ followed close behind. Harfeyen couldn't fathom a reply. Drinking did not make your eyes change color.

All too soon they closed on their prey, four pirate ships with red flags were set upon a ship bearing gold from the mines. The gold ship's escort burned in the choppy water alongside the carcass of a dead dragon. A bowsprit protruded from the dead reptile's breast.

"The remains of Diane's fleet, no doubt," Norrington commented. He referred to the deceased leader of the Blood Flag, who had met her end on Shinarashi's sword less a year before. "Split them down the center. The _Dauntless_ will take the two on the right, the _Intrepid_ the left."

"You'll turn round and go home," Harfeyen snapped. "We're hopelessly outclassed!"

Norrington ignored him and so did the crew.

The two Navy ships sailed between the pirate vessels, breaking the circle that held the gold ship trapped. With the gold ship between them, the Navy vessels opened fire. The pirates scattered, reforming to divide the intruders between them. Canons bellowed and keels screamed, sails and ropes whipped madly against each other. Soldiers called taunts to the pirates, who replied with profanities. The backbone of din was Norrington's voice, with Harfeyen's protests playing counterpoint.

Blood spattered the deck, drawn by flying bullets and sprayed splinters. Norrington's hat was removed by a lucky pirate musket. It was the musketeer's final shot.

While Norrington fought, the _Dauntless_ sank the smallest pirate vessel. The second vessel Gillette faced was the largest of the pirate squad, a Spanish double-decker. Having already sustained damage from the first vessel, the _Dauntless_ was at a severe disadvantage. Despite Gillette's best efforts, the Navy ship took more hits than it gave. Grapeshot and langridge battered the sails and the men. There simply wasn't enough crew to field-repair the fixable, nor enough men to fill the posts left vacant by injury or death.

"Captain! She's holed!" came the shout from below. The sturdy hull had at last been breached.

Gillette regarded his ship, his dear ship he had wanted so long. It was only a matter of time before they would be useless, then the double-decker would turn on the _Intrepid_.

"Crew, abandon ship!" Gillette cried. "Set the sails to ram that pirate vessel and get to the boats!"

The men hesitated only a fraction of a minute before following their prickly leader's commands. Gillette approached the Midshipman behind the wheel.

"Get yourself to safety, boy," the Frenchman said softly. He laid his hand on the wheel. "I'll see this through myself." 

The boy nodded once, understanding. He started to jog away and stopped after a few steps. 

"Sir... you'll die," he said solemnly. Gillette nodded. "If it matters… I mean-- you're a pain in the arse, sir, but the Commodore's lucky to have you under him."

"Thank you. If I survive, I'll reprimand you for those words." The Captain was smiling nonetheless.

The crew and the rats left the ship, and the proud _Dauntless_ bore down on her enemy. The pirate captain refused to believe that the Naval captain was so foolish, and hesitated too long. With a crunch like that of a breaking bone, the _Dauntless_ collided with the Spanish ship. Groans and last-minute canon-fire choked the ears just as the smoke choked the lungs. The relentless wind drove the Navy ship into the heart of the pirate vessel. Smashed wood and crushed men uttered death-cries. Canons and tables collapsed. Fires burned madly, extinguished in blood or seawater. Finally, friction took hold, overriding the inertia of the Navy vessel's corpse.

The pirate captain opened his mouth to issue retreat orders.

His ship exploded. A toppled canon's blaze had ignited his powder magazine.

The force of the immolation threw Gillette from his beloved vessel. The sea caught him in its loving and often fatal embrace.

The sound of Gillette's hard-won victory, his way out of the space between a hard place and a stone, caught Norrington's attention. The Commodore rushed to the railing. Groves did the same, his discomfort over Gillette's secret forgotten.

"Andrew!" Norrington called, even though he knew it was pointless. He couldn't imagine anyone surviving the conflagration that now enveloped the remains of both ships. 

The losing battle Norrington fought, the pirates, and the dead dragon didn't matter. The Navy, purity of soul, nothing mattered. The burn in his stomach became the burn in his veins. He and his little snow faced two double-decked ships. One ship on each side. Death was everywhere, blood and tears coated almost every surface. Victory was impossible with the _Dauntless_ gone.

So be it. Then he'd at least take as many of the bastards with him as he could.

"Load the canons with kerosene-soaked rope and chain shot, Groves," the Commodore ordered. "And run up my colors."

The Lieutenant obeyed that cold baritone, even though you never loaded more than one canon with chain shot.

Within minutes, the proud silver fox-and-cross waved proudly in the breeze. The pirates saw that feared sigil and turned to flee, realizing too late the magnitude of their error.

The _Intrepid_ spat fire at her enemies even as she splintered under their shot. Spidery clumps of scarlet and iron that burned all they touched kissed the pirate vessels. The light-weight ammunition - if one could call it that - flew farther than canon-shot, so that even in full retreat the Blood Flag vessels could not escape Norrington’s hate-filled caress. The fire that caught burned red where it touched wood. It burned green where it touched men. It spread from man to man to man like some wild thing with a mind of its own. Bucket crews doused what ammunition blew back upon the vessel. The green fire did not burn Norrington's ship, only the red. And in the midst of the smoke and the stink of burned flesh the Fox Commodore’s mark flew.

* * *

Clark couldn't believe how out of control things had gotten. He had nearly had Norrington broken, and now he himself was dying. They were all dying in a crackling, snapping Sheol. Clark choked, coughing as the smoke burned his lungs.

The man had cost him a promotion, set back his career, and now he’d cost Clark his very life. He should've done it properly in the first place; see where listening to Harfeyen's cowardice had landed him.

His eyes shining with malice, Clark stood and drew his pistol. This would be the last time the man would set him back.

Clark fired.

A rose bloomed between Norrington’s shoulder blades. The crimson petals spread to fullness, then drained down his dark blue coat. The ship bucked on the waves. Norrington fell over the rail. He plunged headlong into the ocean, the blood turning the saltwater pink. His sword clanged on the deck as it fell, like a soft, sorrowful bell.

* * *

Murtogg couldn't believe it. He'd climbed aboard the dying vessel to make certain Shinarashi's beloved Commodore didn't go down with it, only to see said man murdered. Groves stood equally still, the shock of losing the two men closest to him freezing him more fully than Medusa's gaze.


	8. Garami

Jack Sparrow’s face was unreadable as Anamaria pulled the body out of the ocean. The wreckage of what had doubtless been a spectacular battle floated mournfully, peppered with bits and pieces of what had once been people. At the edge of the debris his first mate’s sharp eyes had spotted a familiar face. Pulling the body aboard had confirmed Sparrow’s worst intuition.

The Fox Commodore was dead.

“Well, that’s that then,” Sparrow said. “If we stay in the Caribbean, it’s London to a brick Harfeyen’s going to make us the Navy’s prime target for not paying his ‘protection’ fees. Norrington wouldn't have hung us, no matter what Harfeyen said. None of the other Fort leaders are going to share that warm and fuzzy sentiment.” 

Anamaria frowned. Sparrow was talking like a sane man.

“How long has Admiral Harfeyen been involved in graft?” the corpse asked. The bedroom tenor was oddly warm, without its usual clipped formality. Long legs shifted and the corpse’s arms moved to support the man’s weight as he rolled over and sat up.

Gibbs swore viciously. Sparrow, on the other hand, grinned broadly.

“Jamie! So you took one of Barbossa’s shiny coins after all! How do you like the curse, love?”

“This has very little and everything to do with Barbossa’s curse,” Norrington said, rising to his feet. His short, wet hair was flopped forward. It was quite fetching, Sparrow thought. “I asked a question, Sparrow.”

“ _Captain_ Sparrow,” Jack insisted. 

Norrington sighed. He decided that if a dishonest madman was in control of his vessel, it followed that he had no time to banter against Sparrow - not if he was going to avenge Gillette’s death and make certain Groves did not suffer the same fate. “Very well. I asked you a question, _Captain_ Sparrow. How long has Harfeyen been engaged in graft and how extensive is it?”

“From the scuttlebutt - and you know how gossip is-” Sparrow said airily, “-since he was a Captain. And he’s got the whole pirate brethren in his pocket save for yours truly and a a handful of, let’s say, unaffiliated chaps.”

Norrington’s face darkened, as the full weight of events sank past the shock of not being dead when he expected to be. So. Harfeyen wasn’t mad at all. He was merely corrupt to the bone and willing to sacrifice the innocent to achieve his blood money. Gillette, his crew, countless numbers of Norrington’s men, incalculable merchants, and unnumbered hordes of loyal Navy officers and seamen; all had died for Harfeyen’s greed. 

Norrington had sworn to bring his men back home alive if it was at all possible, and here he’d embraced a viper. A viper who had murdered him when he would not break.

Clouds roiled above the _Black Pearl_ , appearing suddenly from a clear sky. The wind whipped up, pressing clothes to skin whistling among the sails. The ocean changed from blue to gray. The waves crested and fell, each larger than the last. The _Pearl_ ’s crew rushed about the ship to prepare the ship for the brewing storm. 

Sparrow watched in amazement as in the space of seconds the breeze became a gale and the gale became a storm. 

At last Norrington himself became the storm, his body disappearing as the winds wound themselves into a hurricane. Though the _Pearl_ should have been destroyed, it wasn’t.

Birthed of anger, the hurricane turned to find its target; the ocean thundered in tandem with the unfettered beat of Norrington’s heart.

* * *

Murtogg knew what he was going to do. He knew it full well, but that didn’t keep him from shuddering at it.

Two hours had passed since Norrington’s death and the pirates retreat. Gillette had been fished out of the water, unconscious but alive. Groves had sequestered himself at Gillette’s bedside, crushed under the guilt of having abandoned his friend before so nearly losing him and demolished by the grief of losing Norrington. Another burden on the Lieutenant was the knowledge that he was going to have to tell Gillette that the Commodore was dead, this time without doubt. Assuming Gillette ever awoke.

No, Murtogg knew, Groves would be of no help. The man’s manic energy had been tapped out. He had nothing more to give.

The marine wished that Shinarashi were present, but not even she could make it to the _Intrepid_ before they reached Port Royal, nevermind that the ship had been tediously beating windward for the last hour and a half. What Murtogg was planning could not be done on land; there was too great a chance of interference. There was also a certain poetry in dealing with the ocean’s concerns completely outside the view of shore.

The surgeon-soldier was on his own. He doubted his skill was equal to the task. But on the other hand, he hadn’t had to amputate more than a handful of times during his tenure as surgeon, so perhaps he could manage.

Or perhaps he was deluding himself. Even after nearly two decades of service in His Majesty’s marines, in his heart he was a just a farmer. A farmer learning to heal more than cows; learning to heal men. That was one thing; both were flesh and blood. But could he heal the Fort Charles crew? Could he drive the infection out of His Majesty’s strong arm?

He doubted it. He doubted himself.

But he did not doubt that the attempt must be made.

“You’re not going to do something stupid,” Mullroy demanded. He recognized that far-away look in his friend’s eye.

“Yes,” Murtogg sighed with a world-weariness he’d never displayed before he’d taken up with a demon. “I am going to do something incredibly stupid. You’re welcome to join me.”

Mullroy thought about it.

“What are friends for?” he said with fatalistic vim. 

Murtogg stood, drew his pistol, and walked up to Harfeyen and Clark. He ignored the wretched twist his stomach executed at being so near Clark.

“Excuse me,” Murtogg said, summoning all his nerve to stand tall. His voice did not waver. “You murdered Commodore Norrington in cold blood in the sight of every man upon this deck,” the marine continued, speaking loudly enough to garner the deck crew’s attention. “You will step down from command, come with me to the brig, and await trial. If you do not, then you will die.” For good measure, he added, “and we will not follow your orders any more.”

 _Perhaps I should have consulted with the crew before starting this._ Murtogg gripped the pistol in his hand more tightly.

“I don’t believe you,” Clark said. He advanced on the marine menacingly. “You’re no murderer. And I don’t believe the crew would be fool enough to follow you.”

Murtogg raised the pistol, aiming it for the space between the man’s eyes. It shook, but held its target.

“We follow the man who says Norrington’s murderer’ll pay,” Mullroy said, standing behind his friend. “Not the man what killed him.” The crewmen were standing. Some of them were putting down their tasks, and others were changing how they gripped their tools. The murmur running through them was ugly, and everything officers on most ships feared. The men of Fort Charles had finally noticed they out-numbered the brass. Of course, in this case, the midshipmen on watch were nodding along.

“You’ll all hang for this,” Harfeyen said. His voice was shaking.

“Will you go peacefully?” the nurse-come-surgeon asked, swallowing convulsively.

“No. Now go back to work.” Clark ordered.

The man who loathed killing closed his eyes.

He pulled the trigger. Warmth spattered on his face.

The marine opened his eyes. The ugly murmur had blossomed into angry shouts. The seaman closest to Harfeyen lashed out with his broom, a quick blow to the Admiral’s back. The men on deck surged forward, there was no stopping what had started now--

And a hurricane ascended from the sea. Murtogg was suddenly soaked to the skin, the water roaring around him, but the current didn’t so much as slide him along the deck. The vortex slid along the ship dragging none but Harfeyen up into its wrenching winds. The storm battered and broke the man like a child’s doll. A green glow suffused it.

When Harfeyen was quite dead, the hurricane stopped. The wind blew, gently propelling the ship towards Port Royal. To everyone’s surprise, when the last of the waves swirled away, the Fox Commodore was standing on the deck.

“I hereby leave standing orders that no one is to believe in my demise until I am buried,” Norrington said dryly. “I appear to have as many lives as a cat.”

The crew stared mutely. After a silence just long enough to be torturous, Murtogg made a circle around his head. Norrington looked into a nearby bucket of water.

His ears had grown points, as had his fingernails. Most surprising of all, two dark brown fox’s ears grew out of the top of his head. Norrington turned and looked behind him. He had a tail, even; a cream-and-brown, furry tail that swished softly when he told it to. His uniform was also missing every button and bit of braid.

“Well then. As many lives as a kitsune,” Norrington said. So it was done. There was an odd sort of relief to it. “I regret that I couldn’t save Gillette. Did you find his body?”

“Gillette’s alive, sir,” Murtogg said. “Concussed, on the edge of death, but alive.”


	9. Tsuki

For a moment, Groves thought he had lost his mind. Certainly he must be hallucinating - dead men didn’t descend the cockpit stairs with fox’s ears and a bristle-brush tail.

Then Groves realized what was happening.

“You’ve come to take him, then, sir?” Groves asked, standing in respect to the ghost of the man he’d cared so deeply for - and hurt as deeply. “I’m sorry, if it counts for anything. I’m not saying what you did was right… but you had your reasons for it. I can see that… now, in hindsight.”

It took several moments for Norrington to grasp what the speech Groves was giving meant. When he did, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Thank you, Theodore. I’ll not come to haunt you when I’m dead over it.” The Fox Commodore approached the hammock Gillette laid on. Resting a hand on Groves’s shoulder to prove he was corporeal, he inquired as to the particulars of the Captain’s condition.

“Shinarashi might have something for him, if not… he may wake up, he may stay this way forever, or he may die,” the Lieutenant said. His hands were shaking with the effort of keeping his voice steady even as his smile over Norrington's return kept breaking his composure. Norrington nodded, and pulled up a trunk next to Groves’s.

“Benjamin and the boatswain have the situation well in hand, I’m not needed on deck for a while. Take a nap. That’s an order.”

After one more hesitant look at the unconscious man, Groves departed. After a long silence, Norrington began talking in the hopes Gillette could hear him. Perhaps the sound of a familiar voice would convince the man to return from whatever dream held him.

“There’s no going back, you know,” Norrington murmured. “Not for any of us. Whatever you said to Groves to make him avoid you can’t be unsaid. What we’ve done to Harfeyen can’t be taken back.

“And I’ll never be human again. We’ve crossed the point of no return.” Norrington stroked Gillette’s fire-red hair. It was softer than he's imagined. He laughed dryly. “We’re off the edge of the map, now. The waters we sail in have never been mapped by any man of His Majesty’s navy, and I can’t sail them without you. Whatever dream has caught you may be more pleasant than the nightmare reality our lives have become, but its not real. Please, Andrew, come back to me. To all of us.”

The sleeper did not respond. 

“It’s ironic, I suppose. I was so panicked by the thought of not being human that I alienated everyone I most needed… and thus precipitated the change I’d been trying to avoid. And now that it’s happened I find I don’t really mind it. After all, what good would crying about it do now? It was the natural evolution of things, after all. Lawrence will be so pleased to have all his predictions come true about my 'conduct unbecoming leading me to a sticky end.' Better practically a demon than practically a pirate, I suppose.” Norrington sighed. “Or perhaps that’s just a sign of the change: that it doesn’t upset me. Murtogg says that a demon’s thoughts are different from a man’s. Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps I’ll never see things as I did before. Or perhaps it’s because I have more important things to worry about - like the fact Death’s looking at having you for dinner.”

Gillette said nothing.

“You could at least nod,” Norrington groused. He supposed that it had been too ambitious to expect immediate results.

“Did you know that today marks the two-year anniversary of that night on the Isla de Muerta? It’s been two years exactly since we first learned of magic. Can you believe it’s only been six months since the last time you thought I was dead? What a terribly long six months.” Norrington rubbed his forehead, then reached up to hesitantly scratch his new fox ears. “I wonder what the next six months will be like. Somehow, I don’t think you and I shall have to worry over Christmas parties this year.”

Silence.

“You can keep ignoring me all you like, Andrew, but I’m not going anywhere. You watched over me when the fever nearly killed me last year. I will not do less in return.”

* * *

Shinarashi’s house did not have rooms, per se. It had a small chamber with a door that served as a toilet room, an armoire that served as a closet, and two shelved rooms that served as pantries. The rest of the house was open - a small counter and a fire-pit in one corner served as a kitchen. The oriental-style table sat near the door towards the center, and Shinarashi’s bed trunk lay in the corner farthest from the entrance. Various herbs hung from her rafters, drying. A mortar and pestle sat on the counter, as did various jars and bottles collected from scrap-heaps and cleaned.

For the first time, Norrington could see why people might call Shinarashi a witch. If they only knew the truth… and if they only knew the truth concealed behind Norrington’s uniform and wig.

The Commodore watched as Shinarashi worked, administering various herbs to Gillette as he lay on her flat bed. He saw her creased brows become an all out frown, and worried when she left her patient and washed her hands. At last she turned to the man sitting in her “waiting room” - that is, who sat at her table.

“I have done all I can,” she said in her most professional voice. She did not show her relief at Norrington’s survival, her dreading surprise at his transformation, nor her resentment that he had sent her away for nothing. “Now it is up to him. I can give him a broth that will provide his body with the nutrients it requires, but little more.”

“Can’t you drive the dream out of him?” Norrington inquired, also at his most professional. 

“I beg your pardon?” Shinarashi asked, knowing that after Norrington’s reply she was going to want to kill every pseudo-doctor in Port Royal.

“The dream that’s entrapped him, what’s causing the concussion,” Norrington explained. “Can’t you just drive it out of him?”

And other races were the savages?

“A concussion is not caused by a pernicious dream,” Shinarashi said slowly. “It is caused by the brain being bruised, if that’s what this is… if I had the equipment to look through his skull to his brain, I could know what was happening. But now… all I can do is give him herbs against swelling and hope for the best.”

Norrington nodded. Awkward silence filled the room.

“I shouldn’t have sent you away,” the Commodore said stiffly and suddenly.

“No,” Shinarashi said. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Can you forgive me?” Norrington asked.

“Yes. Eventually. Wounds heal, but not instantaneously. The deeper the wound, the longer it takes… and you hurt me very deeply.”

Norrington looked at the ground.

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Shinarashi said softly. “But you will. Goodnight, James-sama. You need sleep and food, though not in that order. I will see you in the morning when you have squared away the particulars of Harfeyen-san’s death.”

Norrington nodded. He paused at the door.

“Thank you for your efforts-- Doctor.”

Shinarashi looked up from her work. Norrington descended her rope ladder.

On the heels of his departure, Murtogg arrived seeking a different sort of solace.

* * *

Shinarashi brewed tea and listened attentively to Murtogg as he had listened to her. Afterward, she sipped her tea thoughtfully and offered what comfort she could, which was less than she wished.

“You said it yourself: no one else was capable of acting and something had to be done. Clark murdered the Commodore in open view. What may he have done next? And how were you to know that the Commodore’s arrival would render it all well in a few moments?”

“I killed a man in cold blood,” Murtogg interrupted.

“I know. And it’s horrid that you had to be the one to do it.” Shinarashi smiled fondly. She gently grasped her friend’s hand. “You’re no killer, Benjamin. I can’t make your guilt go away because if it did, you wouldn’t be you. But I can tell you that what you did was as justified as killing can be. And I can tell you that rare are the ones who’d blame you for it, and many are the one who admire you for having the courage for it.” She squeezed Benjamin’s hand. “It’s not much comfort, but it’s all I can give you.”

“It’s no comfort at all,” Benjamin said hoarsely.

* * *

Norrington came to Shinarashi’s home shortly after lunch. He and the officers had decided to say that both Harfeyen and Clark had died in the same hurricane that had wrecked the _Dauntless_ , since any other explanation would by necessity entail telling the admiralty about the magic -- and the aborted mutiny. No one wanted that: there was still no proof that could be shipped home to England with the report. Norrington had had Groves pen the report, being unable to write the lie down on paper himself. He had, however, been able to sign it. Why attesting to a lie was allowable but writing it was not, Norrington didn’t know. He just knew it was damned inconvenient. 

Shinarashi was still hidden behind professionalism. She reported no change in Gillette’s condition and stayed out of the way as the Commodore talked to his unconscious friend. Norrington told Gillette of every happening in the day, and every snatch of gossip. Norrington told him stories from his early days in the Navy, and stories gleaned from other officers. And, somewhere around dinnertime, he resorted to reading to him. Groves arrived shortly after the night watch began. Norrington handed his Lieutenant the book, listened to a report on the Fort's condition, and departed.

Groves sat in silence for a moment, then said suddenly, "do you desire other women?"

Shinarashi spilled the jar she'd been filling with ground thyme.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Other women. Do you... desire them? Like I do." The Lieutenant's face was flushed.

"He told you," Shinarashi said. "That's why you've been avoiding him." She began sweeping up the herb powder. 

"He didn't mean to. I guessed and he confessed," Groves said. He looked down at the floor. "It wasn't right, but... He's seen me naked! It's like suddenly finding out your best mate's a woman-- er... no offense intended."

"I'm not the one who'd be offended," Shinarashi said bluntly. "I think he understood it was the shock; he never told me why you two had parted. But he wasn't angry about it. And I'm so tired of getting rejected for something that I am and can't stop being that I really can't sympathize with you."

"I'm not after sympathy," Groves snapped, looking back up at the kitsune. "I want answers."

"Fine then," Shinarashi said. She leaned against the counter and folded her arms. "Ask away."

"Do you desire women like I do?" Groves asked again.

"No."

"Do you desire men?"

"I used to," Shinarashi responded curtly. “But that was a long time ago.”

"Why don't you like girls?"

"I just don't. Never have."

"Is desiring your own gender common where you come from?"

"Yes."

"Don't you see how unnatural it is?"

"It isn't. Morality isn't universal, you know. Just because the Catholic God and the God of Israel say something's wrong doesn't mean it is for everyone. My Gods don't have a problem with men buggering men; most Gods don't. Cows, wolves, baboons, and dogs mount members of their own gender all the time.” Shinarashi made a sharp, sweeping gesture. “No one's calling them unnatural."

"That's different!" Groves said, bringing his fists down on his knees in frustration. "They're animals."

"So are humans. And kitsune."

"Humans aren't animals. We're better than that."

"Really?" Shinarashi laughed mirthlessly, raising an eyebrow. "I'd argue differently. Animals kill out of need and need only, never greed or pleasure -- or hate."

"How do you know?" Groves spat.

Shinarashi pointed to her ears mutely.

"It's still a sin! I mean, the Church is full of hogwash, but they've got a few valid points! It's even in the Bible. Not that I'm a pious man, but... everyone says it's immoral. They don't even wink at it. So now you say that everyone's wrong and that I should just forget everything I've ever been taught? That I should just... accept this... abomination of Gillette's? Next you'll say I should bugger him!"

"No," Shinarashi said sharply. "'Everyone' doesn’t mean a damn thing. 'Everyone' would burn me if he or she got the chance. They'd burn the Commodore as well. Are they right to do so? Besides, acceptance and participation are very different. You can accept that your Captain does desire men, you can tolerate his ‘aberration’, you can respect his right to be what he was made -- and you can respect that he chooses to refrain from sex because the ridiculous laws of your land forbid it. Homosexuality isn't a disease. You can't catch it by being someone’s friend, and if he doesn't have lovers you can bet he needs friends."

"It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" Shinarashi asked. "He will never proposition you or even look twice. He keeps his desires so bottled up that no one notices but those closest to him. He obeys your laws and respects your taboos. These things you cannot tolerate?"

Groves looked down. "I don't know."

"Then consider this. If all those who desire their own gender are monsters, then shouldn't Andrew-kun be one? Do you think he is?" Groves said nothing. "I don't think so, or else you wouldn't be here. You can hate the act, if you must insist on clinging to your _barbarian_ notions,” Shinarashi spat the word that had been flung at her so often by English men, “and love the person.” 

"Why'd he have to be this way, anyway?" Groves finally demanded.

"I'm certain he asks the same question.”

"Do you?"

"Why he had to be what he is, here, now? Yes. Why do I have to be as I am? All the time."

* * *

Gillette's eyes fluttered open. What was that horrible sound? Was the hull breaching?

No. A breached hull was a much softer noise.

"Snoring! Groves, snoring!" Gillette said. Or, rather, that's what he meant to say. What came out of his mouth was, "snagaggahsnog." He tried again with similar results. However, the garbled entreaty did stop the noise. Or, rather, exchanged it for another.

"Shinarashi! Shinarashi, he's awake!"

A lit candle revealed that he was somehow in Shinarashi's house, and the demon's frown revealed that he had been in quite the predicament. Another garbled inquiry brought water to dissolve the cottony feeling in his mouth. A more understandable inquiry brought a report on his condition.

"I thought it was a concussion or brain injury," Shinarashi said, briskly examining him. "But now... I don't know. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was an infection. Perhaps it was something else entirely. I can't look into your brain to be certain. What I wouldn't give to not be doing this with stone knives and bearskins. Gillette-kun, can you straighten your head?"

"It is straight," Gillette protested. Shinarashi gently laid her hands on Gillette's face and turned his head. The world yawed fifteen degrees. He told his doctor so.

"Hopefully, that will wear off," the kitsune said. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I remember promising a lieutenant that if I survived I'd reprimand him. Then... I woke up here. Did we beat the pirates?"

"Yes. And in the process Norrington-sama became a kitsune, Benjamin killed Commodore Clark, and the Norrington-sama killed Admiral Harfeyen. The current story is that a hurricane killed both men and destroyed the _Dauntless_."

"Oh. Well. That's good," Gillette said numbly. "I'm famished."

Shinarashi nodded and got him some light food.

* * *

By the end of the week, Gillette had returned to his own home, though his head still tilted oddly. Groves treated the former Captain with a nervous friendship. Neither man was certain of Groves’s ability to accept Gillette's orientation nor his ability to ignore it. 

Shinarashi was returned to her post as ship's surgeon, though it would be an empty one until the _Dauntless_ 's replacement arrived. Nevertheless, it was she, not Dr. Wellington, who treated the ill inside the Fort. The demon doctor maintained her coolness toward Norrington, who reciprocated the sentiment.

And Benjamin? He began growing a beard so he wouldn't have to shave. The marine was learning to live with what he did, but it was a slow process. There are spots that come clean, and there are spots that stain. Blood stains.

As the August of 1723 dawned, it was quite clear that the five people who had observed the Turner wedding were quite gone. Those left in their places were colder, harder, and somehow more brittle. The bonds between them had faltered and cracked, and though they remained, those bonds were not the bulwark that they had been. The crewmen and marines of Fort Charles wondered what would befall them should those fragile ties break. They hoped that they would not have to find out.

But above all, they hoped for peace.

Fate, however, was not so kind.

The adventures of the Fox Commodore and his crew conclude in:  
"Demon Commodore"


End file.
